


ebb and flow

by Nauts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempt at Humor, BAMF My Unit | F!Byleth, Blood and Gore, Canon Universe, Dimension Travel, Drama, Drinking, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Female My Unit | Byleth, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Gimurei | Grima, Male My Unit | Byleth, Male My Unit | Reflet | Robin, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mutual Pining, My Unit | Byleth Has Emotions, My Unit | Byleth Twins, My Unit | M!Byleth Is Doing His Best, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, and gets drunk way too often, but he still has to figure out how to deal with them, but he's also an incredible dork, kind of;, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28164321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nauts/pseuds/Nauts
Summary: Byleth knows it.That just like the calm waves of the winter sea he liked so much; through ebb and flow, time and space, he would always, always come back to shore.To all the people he loved.To his Dima.Or;Byleth wasn't supposed to have another chance, not when he's already used ten or so in that fiasco of an assault on Enbarr.He should have listened to Sothis; restored those Saints' statues; gone to that canyon with her.One Pulse more could have changed everything.(Or maybe nothing)Because Byleth has also learned the hard way that sometimes, even a million tries are not enough to change a preset destiny.So; when he dies, divine charges fully depleted, he isn't really supposed to have another chance.Except after the dagger pierces his lungs and blood clogs his throat; Byleth finds himself years in the past, no longer the overpowered Goddess's vessel he once was, but a simple man with a functioning, beating heart set on preventing a war.In this new Fòdlan he has awakened to, will he learn what it truly means to be human?[Major plot spoilers for all routes in the game.]
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Ingrid Brandl Galatea, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Jeralt Reus Eisner & My Unit | Byleth, M!Dimileth - Relationship, Minor or Background Relationship(s), My Unit | Byleth & Sothis
Comments: 39
Kudos: 98





	1. snowing (be honest)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! I completely lost control of my life and posted this at 5 am, after playing on repeat sad and epic Fire Emblem Three Houses music. I still hope you will enjoy this nonetheless, and stick with me for the ride!
> 
> Thank you for reading and leaving kudos and comments, they mean a lot to me guys <3  
> You have no idea how happy I am everytime I see that you appreciate this!!
> 
> Sorry in advance for any grammar/spelling mistakes, I'm a non native english speaker doing my best in writing this ^^ any corrections are really appreciated.  
> These symbols ℧Ω appear to divide paragraphs whenever a Pulse is used.
> 
> Enjoy my story!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end of chapter for notes on Byleth's characterization! 
> 
> This chapter's title was taken from the Japanese word pun [snowing, sunao ni] I found inside a song. "Be honest", pronounced sunao ni, greatly resembles our word "snowing". I thought this would fit well with Byleth's honest yet cold nature and behavior.

_Snowing, keep going; be honest and smile as we're approaching, evoking, the clock to keep repeating over._

* * *

Byleth breathes in blood and smoke.

Around him, the fires flashing in the streets of the imperial capital are licking the black sky with their imposing flames, leaving trails of ash behind at their passage.

Piles of dead bodies ornate the ground, the blood of the fallen seeping through the now wet and slimy stones where the corpses of his former students lay, a horrible mixture of flesh and debris.

In it, Ashe; body cold and limp, pierced by an arrow in his heart. The pale white of bone is poking out of his shredded trousers, where an axe had hit true on his thigh-

-And Ingrid, still hot but unmoving, crushed under the full weight of her pegasus. If he closes his eyes, Byleth can still see the terrifying burst of Thoron that struck them while mid-air, halting their graceful dance amidst the dusky clouds.

He has used many Pulses already. He wishes this could be the last one he has to for the day.

(He knows it won’t be)

_It’s time to go back, Sothis._

The sound of shattering glass fills his ears as the goddess responds to his silent plea.

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

This time, he is able to reach the doors of the Imperial Palace without any casualties.

When he opens them, a stream of soldiers rushes out, impaling Sylvain on a spear right before his eyes.

_Sothis._

_“You have five left, Byleth.”_

_I know._

(He didn’t. He’s grateful for the reminder)

_“You’re welcome, idiot. You’re terrible at lying, don’t forget I can read your mind.”_

In truth, Byleth had stopped counting when Hubert first launched those Dark Spikes against Dimitri at the city gates, blood-coated thorns emerging from his King’s mutilated body while a dying scream twisted his face like a grotesque statue of some martyr.

His first Divine Pulse for the day had been used there, and then many others, but not before Byleth had rushed to the Empress’ personal vassal at an inhuman speed and flailed the dark mage with the Sword of the Creator until the only sounds he could hear were the wet ones of his intestines being r-

_“And quit with these dark thoughts! Focus, Byleth, **focus**!”_

_I’m sorry, Sothis._

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

Glass shatters once again, and a Bolganone so hot and bright it resembles a falling star gets unleashed onto the heavy metal entrance from his hands, before any of his students can rush and try to force their way in.

When the air is boiling against his skin and all that remains of the Empire’s last bastion is a molten mess of iron and gold, he enters the halls of the palace, a few steps ahead of everyone else.

On the way to the throne room, Felix loses an arm.

It’s his right one.

Sharp cries of pain fill the room, and Byleth stills his breath for a moment before closing his eyes, until he can clearly envision a stone seat in front of him, surrounded by a green light.

_You know, Sothis, he’s never been that good with his left._

A sad smile Byleth doesn’t remember ever making rests on his lips at the image of the snow-covered training grounds of Garreg Mach, filled only with his and Felix’s soft, muffled steps and the loud clashing of their metallic swords against each other.

The goddess grunts inside his mind, twitching in her seating.

_Sothis, please._

_“...Fine, fine, I understand. I would miss my arm too, if I were him.”_

_Thank you, Sothis._

_“Don’t mention it.”_

For some reason, Byleth thinks he can hear her voice crack at her last words.

“ _Byleth… Be careful._ _It’s four, now._ ”

This time, even with the loud shattering noise that accompanies him on every one of his leaps back in time, the unearthly screams still follow.

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

It takes another pulse to reach the back of the room, where a portion of the ceiling collapses on Annette as a Wyvern makes its entrance from it.

_“Three”_ he hears Sothis’ voice from within, as blood pools at the corners of his lips.

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

He summons a Thunder from the sky above, striking down the wyvern before it can reach the building.

Byleth breathes a sigh of relief when he hears it precipitate onto the ground with a loud creaking noise outside the tall windows of the palace, right in the middle of its gardens.

Annette is safely at his side now, but everyone’s gazes are focused on the monstrous creature occupying the center of the room.

Edelgard.

Limbs corrupted and distorted, flesh the color of darkness and gore.

_Has she always been like this?_

Even if she’s a full-fledged nightmare now, somehow it makes no difference to Byleth.

Her normal appearance wouldn’t have made her any more human than this to his eyes.

_Has there ever been a time where she was?_

Byleth doesn’t remember.

Perhaps, in those days long gone, between flower gazebos and tea parties…

As if hearing his thoughts, the beast roars and charges.

Dedue gets swept up in its clawed fury, along with one of Mercedes’ legs.

“ _….Two._ ”

_Sothis, please-_

_“Two, I said!”_

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

A puddle of blood and vomit at his feet, Byleth is back again, and lunges for the Empress’ head before she can raise her claws at his students.

In his quiet fury, he fails to notice Flayn following behind him, and her kind, porcelain face gets smashed and twisted in the grasp of Edelgard’s abhorrent talons.

_"….”_

_Sothis._

The goddess doesn’t answer.

_Sothis, please do not cry._

_“How can I not cry, you idiot? You’re dying, don’t you know?!”_

_…Yes._

She brings him back anyway.

This time, she doesn’t say anything, so he counts for both of them.

_One._

_“Idiot, I didn’t need to hear that!”_

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

Byleth only realizes he must have stopped breathing sometime in the middle of his charge against the Empress when her putrid skin finally dissolves into the filtering dawn and his lungs fill with air again, burning his insides like wildfire.

Even if that hideous husk of a beast is gone, he knows the monster still remains.

He carefully approaches what’s left of the Adrestian Empire, of their ideologies and beliefs that condemned thousands of innocents.

Images that he won’t ever be able to completely sink in the depths of his mind resurface once more.

_“To think that the first time I saw you cry... your tears would be for me. It's sad, and yet...I'm happy about it. Thank you...kid.”_

He grits his teeth, and takes one step towards the throne.

_“You seem to have all the answers… So tell me, Professor. Please, tell me… How do I silence their desperate pleas? How do I… How do I save them?”_

Another one. His throat fills with bile.

“ _Is this some kind of **twisted joke?!** ”_

Somehow, when he reaches her kneeled figure, collapsed under the sunlight slowly seeping in from the ravaged city outside, Byleth only sees a girl.

Alone, defeated.

For a moment, he wonders what would have happened if he had chosen her at the beginning.

If they had walked her path together.

He barely restrains the urge to throw up again at the thought.

Then, he sees Dimitri running towards him, his armored steps resonating hollowly against the marble surface of the room, eyes glinting with something that Byleth can’t quite place.

_Is it fear?_

“Professor! Are you alright?!”

In hearing his words, he smiles softly at him, and his King comes rushing at his side, arms outstretched towards a body that Byleth doesn’t feel like it’s his own anymore. He surrenders himself into his warm embrace, relishing the familiar touch.

_Peace._

_Is this what it feels like?_

_It’s been so long, Sothis._

_“…Yes, it is.”_

_You’re still crying, Sothis. Why do you cry?_

The goddess doesn’t answer, and Byleth looks at Dimitri’s face as they both pull back and advance towards the former Empress.

Judging by the expression on his face, Dima must have seen the same broken girl as him, because he stands above her and offers her his hand.

The leader of the Blue Lions, who had stepped on the Flame Emperor’s mask as a burst of inhuman laughter escaped his lips, eager to kill and prey.

An abandoned prince sitting in the shadows of a crumbled tower, who had once been so lost in the abysses of madness and revenge he had mistaken Byleth for a ghost of his past, there to haunt him as well.

A wild, rampaging boar, who had craved nothing more than Edelgard’s head on a silver plate for the past five years, reduced to a mere corpse of the just and righteous king Byleth had always seen within him.

The same King who now stands before them, basking in the sunlight, his hand extended towards someone who is simply his stepsister.

In his eyes, peace. Forgiveness.

If Byleth had a normal heart, he’s sure it would beat, right now.

“El…”

Dimitri’s words are cut off by a dagger thrown at his chest.

There, a crimson flower blooms, arterial petals flourishing in the cracks of his armor.

This time, it is Byleth who screams, before a rush of nausea and a distinctive noise he knows better than the sound of his own voice fill his world once again.

He closes his eyes, and jumps.

For one last time.

_I’m so tired, Sothis._

She doesn’t answer.

Since Sothis does not count, he doesn’t either.

(It’s not as if he can forget the number, now)

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

When he opens them again, the dagger is in his own chest, puncturing his lungs.

An inhuman shriek reverberates through the room, but Byleth pays no attention to it.

Instead, he just smiles.

He did it.

Now, he can go to sleep.

His eyelids feel so heavy, his heart feels like it’s melting in the inferno blazing through his veins. But before-

_Sothis, are you still crying? I hear you crying._

_Sothis, answer-_

It is not Sothis crying.

It’s Dimitri, kneeled at his side, his blonde strands of hair tickling his neck as he desperately crouches on his body, where he feels the familiar sensation of his arms encircling him.

Tears are streaming from his eyes, falling down, down until they kiss Byleth’s face, where he can taste them on his lips.

_He looks so sad._

He’s holding him with desperate urgency, hands running across his chest, trying to press the wound, while he turns around and his mouth opens to issue some orders Byleth can’t comprehend.

He watches his King with marvel, and raises one hand at his face, tucking the loose golden strands behind his ear.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes out.

For some reason, when Dimitri looks at him again, he is even sadder now.

“Pr-Byleth…please…n-no…”

“I wanted to visit Fhirdiad… with you, Dima. Without… the war.

“We’ll- we’ll go there, Byleth. Please…”

He feels people gathering around him, and immediately thinks about his students.

“I wanted… a future, with you” Byleth blurts out, still looking at Dimitri, weakly clutching their hands together.

He tries to open his eyes a bit more, see the other faces of the people he loves, but his gaze remains clouded, unfocused.

“I wanted…to do… so many things, with all… of you”

Something sticky and hot starts dripping from his mouth at his last sentence.

Then, his eyelids close on their own, eager to find respite.

* * *

Suddenly, Byleth can’t feel anything anymore.

He never realized the full weight of his sensations, of all the emotions flowing through him -pain, regret, love, desire, anger- until he is suddenly stripped of every single one of them, devoid of his body.

It feels like falling.

A voice interrupts his blank descent into oblivion.

_"A future. Really? Is that what you want?”_

_Sothis!_

_“Happy to hear me, aren’t you? How strange… you shouldn’t be able to feel anything, in here”_

Byleth frowns in confusion. _I always thought I couldn’t feel much in the first place,_ he says.

_“No, no, that’s not what I mean, but- I have to disagree with you on that, Byleth”_

Her tone is one of scolding, yet the warmth in her voice betrays a certain fondness.

He searches for an answer within him. After a pensive pause, he speaks up.

_Actually, you are right. I believe I can quite feel, Sothis._

_“Of course you can, dummy! Remember who created you!”_

Byleth can almost hear her little feet stomping on the ground of the Holy Tomb in childish protest. He knows the goddess is old, but sometimes her behavior reminds him of a-

“ _And I’m not a **child** , even if I do look like one, thank you very much!”_

A soft, muffled chuckle escapes his lips, even in the absence of his corporeal features. Byleth is not sure if Sothis hears it, in this blank space where he came to rest. 

(She does, and smiles at him)

“ _Well, well, well, what a pleasant surprise… it truly seems you have retained some degree of emotion. You never cease to amaze me, Byleth. ”_

He’s not sure whether to take that as an insult or a compliment, so he just nods politely.

_Thank you, Sothis._

_"Aww, come on! Back to the dead fish face again? To think you're still so formal sometimes, after all the things we've shared... listen, Byleth, I have an idea. But I need you to be completely sincere with me for this, okay?”_

She doesn’t wait for him to reply, and presses on _._

_“Do you have any regrets, Byleth?”_

Many images pass before his eyes.

A white-haired girl, lilac eyes wide with terror as the tip of his blade dips into her ribs, her blood dampening the green grass of the monastery gardens while the other students scream and flee on his first day on the job.

Him oversleeping on that fateful day, departing with his father and their mercenaries somewhere far, far away, leaving those three kids to an unknown destiny at the hands of some bandits.

An old librarian, struck at night inside the library with an axe to his head. An entire village that would have otherwise known the suffering of some sick and terrible experimentation, saved in that instant. 

Him barging alone inside the Death Knight’s quarters, strangling the girl who went missing for a year before anyone can see him throwing her body into a sunless pit no one would ever discover-

_Sothis, no. Discard all these. There are far more important things._

The goddess lets out a surprised whistle, but does not interrupt him.

He focuses once more. 

Him being kinder. Him smiling a bit more at his students, praising them louder after every successful result, understanding them better after each failed attempt.

Him telling them to keep moving on, to keep becoming stronger.

Him helping out Dedue in the greenhouse every day, introducing him to other students, making sure he wouldn’t ever be discriminated against again. Maybe ask him and Claude to come fishing at the pond, all together.

Him comforting Ashe when his father got executed before his eyes, staying up after midnight reading knightly stories together until he was sure the boy was sound asleep. Him trying to stop the whole mission against Lonato, making Catherine reconsider, too.

Him helping Ingrid reply to the letters sent by her father, proving her she had all the strength she needed (and so much more) to carve out her own path as a knight, while bringing Annette and Gilbert together over a few nice hot meals at the monastery’s dining hall.

Him baking more sweets with Mercedes, inviting her and her long-lost brother for tea, sampling the treats they made in merriment and harmony.

Him making Sylvain see that a crest didn’t define his worth, but his actions did. Finding a way for the red-haired boy to cope with his feelings for his swordsman childhood friend while at it too, and possibly in a less destructive way than seeing him chasing around every cute girl in the halls, hoping to find a speck of genuine love like that.

Him helping Felix escape the shadows of Glenn, making him see what an exceptional individual he was on his own. Saving Lord Rodrigue too, because he knew that behind those harsh words and scornful looks, the boy truly loved his father.

Him kissing Dimitri as soon as he lays his eyes upon him-

_Discard this too, Sothis._

_“Why? You were doing **so** well, Byleth!”_ she whines.

_Because I would look like a maniac, in doing so._

_“Then just change this last part, you **big** , **dumb-headed foolish fool-“**_

_Okay,_ he interjects before she can add more insults to her roster.

Him inviting Dimitri to train together-

“ _ **Booooooooo** ,_” Sothis laments. “ _So boring, Byleth!_ ”

_Let me finish, Sothis._

Him inviting Dimitri to train together, bringing gifts over to his quarters and preparing hot-brewed Chamomile for the prince. Them dancing at the ball, bodies pressed gracefully against each other, then meeting at the goddess tower right before daybreak to wish upon a radiant future together.

Him noticing his pain earlier, the shadows looming over his figure a bit sooner. Him preventing the ghosts residing within his azure eyes to come undone at the sight of a fallen mask.

Him being there for him when the rest of the world wasn’t.

And finally -finally- them kissing atop the Star Terrace, years after a war that would never be fought, as the newly appointed King and Archbishop.

(Actually, only seeing Dimitri crowned King would be fine for him. Byleth did not wish for, nor needed any kind of title to attain happiness)

“ _Why?"_ interjects Sothis _, "I think you’d make a much better Archbishop than Seiros. **Ugh** , that rebellious, stubborn girl! I wonder whom she has taken after!”_

_I know exactly whom_ , Byleth chuckles lightly. At least, he would, if he still had a throat and a pair of lips.

Somehow, he’s sure Sothis must be blushing, right now.

_“I’m totally **not** blushing! And well? I know you still have some things you want to say! Don’t try to trick me and spill them out!”_

He thinks back at his life, again. He doesn’t take too long to come up with the answers the goddess craves.

Him going out to drink with his father and the mercenaries. Jeralt and him, fishing together as always, but many, many times more. Him smiling around his father at every merry occasion, laughing at his silly jokes, gulping down booze together in front of a campfire. Him singing songs on the road with them, louder than he ever did.

Saying out loud that he loved his family, as strange as it was.

Him greeting Sothis every morning, always telling her how beautiful she looked. Him accompanying her to that canyon she had wanted to see, accompanying her everywhere she wanted to.

“ _Oh, Byleth”,_ Sothis sniffs _. “You’re such an idiot. You’re making me cry. Again_.”

Byleth frowns. He doesn’t like the thought of Sothis crying.

“ _These are happy tears, **moron**! Resume your tasks, now. After your regrets, what are your wishes_?”

_My tasks?_

_“I have an idea”_ she replies enigmatically, ignoring his last question. Byleth knows that if Sothis had wanted to share any more than this, she would have done so already, so he doesn’t press her.

_“Thanks for the thoughtful gesture. Now, would you kindly resume? What do you want, Byleth?”_

_What do I want?_

He’s still in the void, so he can’t really choose anything useful to bring in there.

He believes he hears Sothis slapping something between her hands, and freezes for a moment.

“ _Go on. That was my head, by the way. It’s called a facepalm, because you hit your forehead with- **ah, you’re making me lose so much time! Just say it!“**_

_I want…_

A vivid picture paints itself before his eyes.

It’s an image of him and Dima, slightly older, watching the snowy scenery of the royal castle in Fhirdiad.

In the gardens, Felix and Sylvain are chasing each other through the floral labyrinth, laughing in their chase, while on the other side Ingrid and Annette throw some magic-infused snowballs at two very distressed-looking Dedue and Gilbert.

Lord Rodrigue stands by and watches, until he gets treacherously hit by a particularly big one thrown by Gilbert-Gustave, and decides to join the fight as well.

Mercedes and Ashe are sitting under a gazebo a few feet farther, surrounded by fountains of ice that look like crafted glass. With them, a man with eyes the same striking hue of amethyst as the Blue Lion's healer slowly sips tea, taking small bites out of a selection of pastries while they chat amicably.

Sometimes, Ashe glances away from his book of heroic tales in order to look at Ingrid, clad in a very-sturdy looking knight's armor and sporting a hint of pale-blue eyeshadow on her eyes. She looks stunning.

Byleth can’t help but notice that whenever Ashe looks in her direction, his cheeks redden a bit more.

When Sylvain suddenly falls face down in the snow after a sudden turn in the maze, Felix catches him in his arms and spins him around before kissing him passionately.

Jeralt and his mercenaries, only just arrived on the scene, start cheering like crazy before intoning sappy and vulgar love songs that everyone dances to. Surprisingly, Lord Rodrigue knows the song as well, and sings it louder than anyone else.

For some reason, his cheering is also the loudest among the Lions.

Up in the terrace, looking at this scene from above, are him and Dima.

The latter’s hair is loosely tied back in a short ponytail, strands of gold flowing in the brisk wind, revealing the beautiful features underneath their blond halo.

On his fingers, Byleth notices the ring that once belonged to his own mother, shining under the pale winter light. 

When his beloved turns to face him, his eyes are both still intact. They look at him like he’s the most precious thing in the world, and he can only hope to return the intensity of that gaze.

Then Dima gently cups his face with his hands and brings their lips together, and Byleth knows he has finally found his answer.

Suddenly, all around them, it starts snowing. 

_“Is this what you want, Byleth? I swear, stop cutting fucking onions all around me and decide, **for the goddess’s sake!** Which would be **mine,** just in case you forgot.”_

_I would never forget anything about you, Sothis. I promise,_ he says earnestly _._

_“….Don’t make promises you can’t keep, you absolute **fool**!”_

Her voice is softer when she speaks again.

“ _But I’m glad, Byleth, that you feel that way. Somehow, I feel so very warm now. Are you absolutely sure you want it to be snowing there?_ ”

He thinks about it. Snowing.

“ _Be honest, Byleth._ ”

_Yes, snowing._

_“Okay. Close your eyes, now. Well, pretend you have eyes, and that you can close them. Are you ready, Byleth?”_

_I am._

Ethereal eyelids shutting on void and whiteness, he obeys the goddess’s orders.

When Byleth wakes up, it is indeed snowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, a little note on Byleth's characterization: at this point, Byleth has lived -well, not really *finger guns*- through the war, and so he's started to comprehend people and how to interact with them a bit better, even if he's still a huge dork when it comes to human interaction (mostly due to his secluded and particular upbringing between mercenaries, devoid of any contact with boys and girls his age.)  
> This, especially, made him appear a bit detached in the past when it came to killing, because he's grown in a context where death was something normal and frequent (part of the job, literally speaking). However, he's not cruel, and his perception of death greatly changes after Jeralt dies and he witnesses many deaths in the war, thus making him incredibly attached to this idea of saving everyone he holds dear, as we can see in this chapter.
> 
> Also, the lack of a fully human heart prevents Byleth from experiencing emotions in the same way others around him do. Careful though, he's not exempt to feelings, he just has a hard time expressing those and living them with what's considered a "normal" intensity.  
> Emotionally, think of him as this calm sea surface with waves moving underneath, that sometimes explode in huge bursts of emotion here and there (as seen when he takes out his anger on Hubert, all at once). 
> 
> Thanks for reading until here and for all the kind comments ^^


	2. sanctuary (angels in flight)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A small disclaimer because I'm stupid and forgot to specify it: in this fic Dimitri is crowned king as soon as the Blue Lions liberate Fhirdiad, and NOT after the war as it happens canonically in the game.] 
> 
> Chapter's title taken from the song Sanctuary, by Utada Hikaru. I thought the line [Angels in flight, my sanctuary] was very beautiful!  
> I hope you have a good time reading this!
> 
> Notes on characterization at the end!

_My sanctuary, w_ _here fears and lies melt away._ _Music inside, w_ _hat's left of me?_

* * *

Byleth breathes in snow and frost.

In his new white world, he finds himself inside a landscape he doesn’t recognize.

Pale crystals are slowly descending from the sky above all around his figure, and a wave of infinite tenderness and odd nostalgia comes crashing down to him at the view.

_It’s strange,_ he thinks, _this sudden heaviness in my chest._ Byleth waits for a reply to come out from the back of his mind, but no one answers.

He doesn't even know why he was expecting otherwise.

When he lowers his gaze to his surroundings, in front of him lays a vibrant city, bustling with life and sounds, streets filled with the smells of freshly baked sweets and the jovial yelling of merchants.

A thick blanket of snow enshrouds the rooftops of every house in sight, hiding their tiles from view. Somehow, Byleth knows that if he were to remove their icy cover, he’d find many different shades of blue underneath.

Ignoring the urge to climb atop a stranger’s propriety just to verify his strange assumptions, he takes one step into the dim light cast by lanterns on the sidewalk, and ventures inside the city square.

It’s cold, and Byleth can see his breath forming clear puffs in the air whenever he opens his mouth to gape at the vast array of weapons and accessories showcased in the nearby market stalls. The unfamiliar sensation makes him shiver inside his coat, and he sees how lightly he is dressed for such frigid weather. He vows to buy new clothes as soon as possible, if only to survive the night.

Wandering among mysterious concoctions, heavy suits of armor and vendors that try to lure him inside their shops with promises of impossible discounts and affable smiles, Byleth eyes a particular piece of clothing in one of the booths that immediately catches his attention.

It’s a cape, color of the rich oceanic depths, lined with patches of black and white fur that cascade around the collar until they reach halfway through its rear. Whenever his eyes meet the blue fabric, Byleth can almost feel the warmth of a strong embrace encircling his waist.

He's sure he's seen it before.

(Somewhere, somehow.)

The moment he reaches out for it with his hand, an image flashes behind his eyes.

* * *

_A single candlelight illuminating a dark, run-down room. Stacks of papers laying atop an old mahogany desk where his head and arms are splayed, a half-empty inkpot dripping black liquid onto the wood and staining his nails._

_Exhaustion silently creeping over him, while the quietness of the night slowly lulls him to sleep._

_All around him are empty gardens and abandoned halls, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the wind. Then, something breaks that idyllic peace._

_A faint approaching of footsteps resounds in the aisles, until it suddenly halts in front of his study._

_Metal turns, wood creaks, and a fresh breeze intrudes from the open door to graze at his skin._

_Byleth shivers in his slumber._

_In this half-asleep state, he gets greeted by the pleasant sensation of something warm and heavy being draped over his shoulders, while calloused hands run softly through his hair, tracing soothing circles on his scalp._

_It’s barely enough to stir him, but a muffled sound still escapes his lips._

_“Dim-?”_

_The hands immediately retract from his head._

_A faint feeling of fur tickling his neck remains._

_“It’s no one, Professor. Go back to sleep.”_

_He does._

_The last thing Byleth hears is footsteps leaving in the night._

* * *

Brushing the strange vision away, Byleth takes another good look at the cape.

It might be a bit oversized for him, but it appears very warm and cozy, and he doesn’t need much convincing from the old lady behind the counter to complete his purchase.

“I’ll take this” he informs her, before opening his bag to search for the correct sum of money.

It is there that Byleth notices two things:

First; he is _obscenely_ rich, if the price he’s just been told serves as an indication for how many more capes he could still buy with its contents.

Second; tucked inside the innermost part of his pockets lays a stained cloth. Under which, judging by the feeling of his fingers tentatively clasping around it, something hard and solid is wrapped.

Byleth almost jumps when something slick and sticky drips from it and clings to his fingertips. He does not dare to retreat his hand from the bag, so he hastily pays and walks away from the busy square, thinking it wise not to pull the mysterious object out until he’s someplace safe and isolated where he will have no repercussions in case he’s carrying with him something he feels like he _shouldn’t_.

Warmed by the thick fabric now resting on his back, Byleth swiftly makes his way through well-lit central streets and shady back alleys, where the setting sun casts ominous shadows at his every step and his new cape flutters in the breeze, until he reaches an open, secluded area where he stops to catch his breath.

From there, he can see the silhouette of a majestic castle rising against the sky in the distance, white stone towers and spires gleaming under the waning light.

It's beautiful, and for some unknown reason the sight fills his chest with a fleeting sensation he can't quite place.

It's almost as if the castle is calling him.

(And Byleth feels oddly compelled to answer.)

Then, another vision overlaps with the reality laid in front of him.

* * *

_Great, white palace halls filled with unknown faces and reverent silence._

_A marble terrace, where he’s standing to face the multitude of people gathered below._

_There’s a cold, metallic object in his hands, and a young blonde man kneeled in front of him._

_“My King”, Byleth whispers to his ear, as he smiles and places the crown on his head._

_Then the man raises it, and he can see tears rolling down his cheeks._

_Byleth barely resists the urge to kneel beside him and kiss them away, before offering his hand to help him get up._

_The king accepts and rises to stand at his side, fingers still entwined together._

_A ray of light pierces the clouds above, bathing them in radiance, and the crowd erupts._

_“Long live the Savior King!”_

_When the man whispers something back at him, Byleth can’t hear a word under the loud acclamation and the thundering of his own, un-beating heart._

* * *

By the time Byleth reaches the castle, the orange tints of the sky have already veered into a deep purple, and some of the boldest stars shine where the sunlight doesn’t reach.

The imposing building before him is surrounded by dreamlike white gardens and frozen water fountains, and for a moment Byleth is completely overwhelmed by the beauty of its scenery, until he notices the tall fence enclosing it and preventing him from getting closer to its marvels.

He lets out a loud sigh of disappointment, and it’s there that he notices the two guards stationed in front of it.

It seems that they have noticed him as well, because their gazes quickly wander in his direction. “ **Halt!** ” commands one of them, a beefy man with tanned skin. “State your business at the palace!”

The sudden request startles him, and Byleth pulls his hands out of his pockets and points a finger to his face, a silent question forming on his lips.

The guards grunt in unison.

“Yes, you. Do not make us- Wait, why is there **_blood_** on your hands?!”

Byleth immediately glances at his palms. One of them is covered in splotches of crimson, and he panics at the sight.

He had completely forgotten about the suspicious package inside his bag.

When he hears the sound of weapons being unsheathed in the background, he becomes completely frozen in place.

 _I only wanted to see that terrace again,_ he thinks.

No one answers.

_I don’t know what is happening anymore._

Silence, again. Feet marching towards him-

_Where even am I?,_ he pleads once more.

One of the guards is charging at him at full force, a heavy hammer in his hands-

_I want to get away from here._

His final try.

Byleth blinks, ready to feel armor crashing onto him, steel smashing his limbs and bones-

-and warps to the other side of the gate.

Without looking back, he runs inside the gardens in between the guards’ shocked screams and enters the giant maze at their center.

When he finally stops running, it’s only because he’s so lost inside it he doubts anyone will ever be able to find him without burning the whole labyrinth down to a crisp. Reassuringly -or not, because Byleth is not sure he likes the idea of dying alone and forgotten inside a web of evergreen foliage any better than being squashed by a rampaging guard- there are other sets of footsteps decorating the snow beneath his feet, making it impossible to tell them apart and following his ones alone.

He tries warping again, to no avail, and resigns to wander until he will hopefully find another exit in there.

A hidden one, maybe.

Somewhere, somehow.

Byleth sighs, and keeps quietly moving forward in what he hopes to be the right direction, constantly deciding between crossing archways made of leafy branches or treading long alleys lined with statues of lance-wielding heroes on horseback.

Despite the undeniable attraction this place exerts on him, embellished by the falling snow that makes every corner and junction look like something directly taken from a children’s picture book, Byleth’s hand is still unpleasantly sticky and smelly, making it hard for him to enjoy the whole situation.

As if hearing his thoughts, a fountain appears in his field of view, right where all the different paths intersect together to form a wide clearing.

_The center of the maze._

Byleth immediately rushes to it, eager to wash away the grime from his skin. Luckily for him, the water inside it hasn’t frozen completely, and is still partially flowing from its ornate mouths.

His hand aches under the cold stream, yet he doesn’t retreat it. At least now he’s clean, and in his eyes, that’s better than being warm but gross.

He still wishes he could light a small fire to dry himself up a bit though, especially because he feels bad about having to use his new cape as a washcloth. Then, from thin air, a glowing red orb materializes in his hands, suspended above his palms.

He instantly jerks away from it, letting it fall onto the snow, where the flame melts along with the ice until it reveals the brown earth underneath.

_What was that?_

Byleth doesn’t remember ever learning a spell like that.

Nor he remembers being able to use _any_ kind of _magic_ at all.

In truth, Byleth doesn’t remember anything about himself, save for a name.

His, hopefully, but he’s not so sure anymore.

_Who am I?_

_What am I doing here?_

His questions hang eerily in the air.

He doesn’t know why, but a part of him still expects for a second voice to pop out and answer all his doubts for him.

(It doesn’t)

Then, he remembers the reason why he’s stuck in there in the first place-

-The bloodstained cloth. The mysterious package.

His hands run to his bag, grabbing the unfamiliar weight inside it. He harshly unwraps it from the filthy fabric, hoping to find some sort of clue to his identity in its contents. 

Blood trickles down his fingers, and Byleth knows he will have to wash himself again.

Sighing, he takes the object into his hands for examination, and watches it gleam under the moonlight.

It’s a dagger, a simple blue and golden hilt scarcely decorated with squared shapes, its blade a common -yet sharp- double edge. It was clearly something forged with functionality rather than design in mind, and Byleth is almost disappointed at its sight.

It doesn’t have anything particularly noteworthy about it, except for the fact that it’s covered in blood, and that leaves him again at drawing a blank regarding himself and his own whereabouts.

Lost in thoughts, Byleth buries the used cloth -too dirty to wash- under one of the maze’s tall hedges, and heads to the fountain, desperate to clean himself. The freezing water pours over both his hands and the dagger, removing any stain and hint of gore from them.

That’s when he sees it.

A strange symbol, carved on one side of the blade. It's pulsating with a faint, purple glow.

Byleth can’t help but think it almost looks like a beating heart.

Then, a voice startles him from behind.

“You are not from here.”

The tone is equally surprised and accusing, and Byleth turns around, ready to face the intruder that just barged in on his personal identity crisis.

He’s not ready to witness what he, in fact, does on the very following instant.

There’s a kid before him, standing at the entrance of one of the many pathways converging into the maze’s clearing.

His fair hair is cut into a neat bob that almost reaches his shoulders, and when he walks towards him, it takes on a luminous shade of silver under the starlight.

What strikes him the most about his sudden appearance though, is that the child’s only wearing a light nightgown and a pair of slippers in the unforgiving winter.

Byleth frowns. _It’s too cold outside to only be wearing that._

When the kid stops in front of him, he bends down to be on his same eye level, hoping not to scare him away.

The last thing he wants is for a child to get lost inside the labyrinth, freezing to death, alone and scared with no one but a stranger on his traces.

(Byleth hopes he can do this right. For some reason, he does not picture himself to be very good with kids)

“No, I‘m not,” he says, in the most reassuring voice he can muster. “And what are you doing here?”

 _At this hour, and under this weather_ , he wants to add, but leaves the questions hanging. He doesn’t want to sound like he’s scolding him, after all, lest the boy runs away.

At first, his little interlocutor doesn’t answer. Byleth almost thinks he might have messed up before he hears him drawing a breath, followed by excited babbling.

“I saw a big light in the gardens from my room and came to check on it! That was you, mister, wasn’t it?”

For someone who must be freezing to death, the boy sure is oddly lively.

“Aren’t you cold?” Byleth inquires, deflecting the question.

“I’m from Faerghus!” he announces, as if it were enough of an explanation. “But, yes, I suppose it is indeed a bit cold here. I should have brought my mantle down with me…” 

When he shivers through his words, the boy lowers his gaze to the ground, and his cheeks flush a little. He looks incredibly small and delicate under the falling snow, and even beyond his prior burst of excitement, Byleth notices he has a soft, peculiar way of speaking.

Refined, almost.

An idea pops up in his mind. He feels sad having to relinquish his purchase this soon, but this small human clearly needs it more than him.

“How about…” he begins, looking at the boy. His bright eyes are staring back at his expectantly, filled with innocence and curiosity. Byleth feels the urge to protect him from the world.

“…How about I answer all of your questions, and you put this on?” he hands him his cape, and the other shyly takes it in his hands.

“A-Are you sure-“

“Absolutely”, Byleth replies without hesitation.

He watches his petite figure almost disappear into the layers of fabric and fur, and it’s somewhat of a comic scene.

If the cape was big for his shoulders, it’s enormous on the boy’s tiny ones, where it hangs loose in several places before falling to the ground in a long train.

“…It’s too big” he hears him faintly protest from underneath it.

Byleth tries his best to hide the small smile creeping up his lips.

“It might be indeed a bit big on you now, but it’ll keep you warm on your way back to your room-”

At his last words, the boy’s face sinks, but he stays politely silent.

“-I was saying, on your way back to your room, after you finish asking me whatever you want. Is that acceptable to you?”

When his miniature companion’s eyes shine with renowned enthusiasm, Byleth doesn’t regret his decisions for the night.

After a moment, a timid voice, high-pitched with enthusiasm. resonates in the empty space. “So, uhm, that light! Was it truly you?”

Byleth ponders the question. He figures out he has nothing to lose from saying the truth to a kid, and nods.

The boy practically jumps around in elation.

“I knew it! Can you… can you do other magical stuff like that, mister?”

Byleth bends down closer, a hand pressed on the side of his own mouth conspiratorially. “I can warp,” he confesses, and the animated squeaking he receives in response makes him chuckle lightly.

“…Is that how you entered here, then?” The boy holds his breath.

Despite the innocence of the question, Byleth is not so eager to admit trespassing into private propriety to its possible rightful inhabitant, so he just smiles mischievously, tilting his head to one side.

“...Maybe.”

Another delighted squeak escapes his new friend’s petite lips.

Byleth presses a finger to his own mouth, signaling him to hush. Goddess forbid what the guards will do to him were they to find the bloodied stranger alone with a child inside a giant maze.

He shivers at the thought.

The boy nods in understanding and eagerly raises his own finger to his face, mimicking his gesture with sparkling eyes.

He must have noticed Byleth’s quivering shoulders however, because he soon asks “Are…are you cold, sir? I shall give you this back-“

_This boy is too observant for his own sake._

Byleth shrugs. “No, No, I’m fine. You keep it. I quite like the cold here, actually”, he smiles.

(He’s lying. He thinks he is merely minutes away from freezing alive.)

Then, he remembers the unfamiliar, metallic weight still clasped in one of his hands, and his grip tightens around it unwittingly.

Of course his companion has to notice this as well, because his eyes immediately dart to his fingers and Byleth hears a suffocated gasp coming from him.

_Too observant, indeed._

“Please don’t scream-” he begs.

“-Is that a dagger? It’s so cool” the boy blurts out at the same time.

_Wait-_

_What?!_

“Can I see it?” he goes on, closing the distance between them with dancing steps and tugging at Byleth’s sleeve. “Please, mister!”

Byleth sighs.

(If it’s in relief of defeat, he doesn’t know. He notices he’s been sighing a lot, lately. Maybe it’s because he seems to have completely lost control of his life.)

_Absolutely not_ , he wants to reply.

“Just who are you?” he asks instead.

The boy looks at him with a bashful expression on his face, before blushing profusely. “My dad told me not to say my name to strangers.”

Byleth nods. It is good advice.

“Your father is right,” he states, “you shouldn’t. But I’m also sure he must have told you not to wander the gardens alone, at night, dressed only in a nightgown and under the snow.”

The boy doesn’t reply, and his face reddens at the light scolding he’s receiving.

Byleth does not relent.

“So promise me two things. First, that you cover yourself appropriately before going out in the cold night- wait, scratch that. You don’t go out alone, at night. And the second; that you will never approach a stranger with a weapon in their hands. Do you understand me?”

A small nod of his head. Byleth smiles.

“Good.”

“B-but why?” the boy shyly asks, after a silent pause.

_Because it’s dangerous,_ he wants to say.

_Because there are people who might hurt you._

_Because the world is a horrible place-_

“Just promise me” he breathes out.

A whine escapes the object of his small lecture. “Ok…”

Byleth's face relaxes-

“...can I see your dagger, now?”

-Too early.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, no.”

Another whimper.

“Then what about you teach me to do magic?”

“I’m…I’m not sure about that,” Byleth answers honestly. “I just wish for something to happen, and then it does. I don’t really do anything special.”

The boy looks slightly doubtful, but he still closes his eyes and joins his small hands together.

It looks as if he’s praying.

(To whom, Byleth doesn’t know.)

When he opens them again, disappointment is all over his face.

“It didn’t work for me,” he whispers.

Byleth tentatively reaches out to him and pats his head. “Maybe it’s for the best,” he says, gesturing at the hedges around them. “You wouldn’t want to set this whole thing on fire.”

_This whole thing._

That makes him remember-

_-The maze!_

“Do you know how to get out of here?” he asks almost pleadingly, still pointing at the green walls surrounding them. “A secret exit, maybe?”

The boy chuckles, and his face gleams in the pale light. “Of course, Sir! I know every nook and cranny of this place. It was made for me, after all!”

Byleth barely suffocates a pang of jealousy. He wishes he could have his own personal labyrinth, too.

Unexpectedly, his guide is silent as they walk the leafy corridors on their way out. Snow keeps falling, setting atop their heads and dampening their locks.

Finally, they reach a small opening on the side of one hedge.

“Here you are” announces the boy, proudly pointing at it. “ _My_ secret exit.”

Byleth observes it. It’s a tiny hole, fit for a child. He will have to crouch to cross it, but it should be fine.

“Thank you,” he says.

His companion smiles softly in return, cheeks still red for the cold. He looks like he has something he wants to say, so Byleth waits.

“Before you go…what is your name, mister?” he finally asks.

Byleth doesn’t know what he could possibly reply to that.

Until a few hours before, he thought he at least had the answer to this simple question, even amidst a sea of uncertainty.

Now, after everything about himself has stopped making sense, he’s not sure the name he remembers is truly his own anymore.

After all, _Dimitri_ sounds so very strange to his ears.

“I’m not sure,” he ultimately admits, defeated. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember much about myself, it seems.” He shakes his head, smiling sadly.

The boy gulps, eyes wide. When he speaks, there's a certain degree of fear in his voice. “You a-aren’t a ghost, are you, Sir?”

In looking at him, Byleth notices that he has -subconsciously or not- taken a few steps away from his direction. Somehow, this makes him a bit sad.

His companion presses on, still leaned on the far side of the wall from him.

“It is said the dead can’t remember their names… Are you- are you here to haunt me?”

The boy’s last words echo dully in his mind.

_‘-here to haunt me?’_

Then, a flash of white clouds his vision. A voice, filled with resignation and loneliness, rings in his ears.

Another echo.

(Another lifetime.)

_“I should have known...that one day...you would be haunting me as well.”_

For a moment, someone else appears in front of him, shadow looming over the boy. An imponent figure, clad in the same cape in which the youngling is wrapped.

Byleth can’t help but notice how it fits perfectly on this stranger’s shoulders.

When the man turns to face him, he gets completely absorbed inside the mirage.

* * *

_A faint echo of footsteps on stone amidst an unnatural silence. A staircase, wet from the rain and slimy with the blood of Imperial soldiers scattered on each step._

_The dreary feeling of having to walk over their lifeless bodies, hearing the squishing of flesh underneath his boots._

_Unsuccessfully, he tries to ignore the sensation and keeps ascending the crumbled tower._

_He strides across the different floors, where dawn is filtering through the broken windows, casting illusions of light in the eerie ambient._

_Around him, echoes of a past he can’t go back to dance before his eyes, lining themselves on the ruined walls._

_If only for an instant, where only debris and waste remain, Byleth can see the former glory of the place restored once more, back to the days where he walked those cherished halls with his beloved students._

_Then, reality kicks in again, and the smell of decay and abandonment hits Byleth at full force. Resisting the urge to throw up, he runs the last steps to the top._

_When he reaches it, he is not prepared to face the sight it offers._

_A humanoid figure, leaned against the back of the furthest wall, in a spot where the stonework is still intact._

_Around him, the morning light is filling the ambient and pooling on the floor, yet he sits in the shadows._

_If only for an instant, where only the husk of a broken man remains, Byleth can see the former glory of the prince fit to be King, back to the days where they walked towards the same future together._

_Another echo._

_(The same lifetime)_

_When Byleth breathlessly walks towards the man and offers him his hand, a part of him is still hoping he would take it._

_(He doesn’t)_

_As the prince turns away and speaks, Byleth is grateful not to have a functioning heart, for he is sure it would have shattered in that very moment._

_“I should have known...that one day…you would be haunting me as well.”_

* * *

“I’m not a ghost” Byleth remarks flatly, slightly knitting his brows together. "And I'm not here to haunt you."

His voice is steady, and in hearing his words, the boy immediately eases up and comes back at his side. When he speaks, there’s an expression of absolute marvel and wonder in his eyes.

“Then…are you perhaps an angel?”

Byleth doesn’t miss the reverence in which the last word was pronounced, and considers the remarkable appellative.

_An angel._

He likes the sound of it.

In a way, Byleth's slightly hoping that would indeed be his case, since the stinging sensation left by his vision told him that there's nothing worse than being referred to as _ghost_.

_Angel, then. Possibly._

“Perhaps” he replies.

The boy stomps his little feet in excitement all over the snowy terrain. The childish gesture reminds Byleth of someone else he is supposed to know, yet he doesn’t remember _whom_.

“I knew it, I knew it! Then, mister angel, do you have a sanctuary?”

Byleth tilts his head in confusion. He doesn’t know what that word means, but in a way, it is very familiar to him. He tries hard to recall when he last heard it, and frowns at his lack of success.

A sudden offer breaks his dispirited silence. “I-if you don’t have one, why don’t you make this your sanctuary?”

He stares at the boy in disbelief.

The boy stares back at him, eyes gleaming with hope.

After a long battle of stares, Byleth is only able to mumble a defeated "ok" as he watches the other one's face light up, before bidding him farewell.

“But I really have to go, now. There are some things I absolutely need to understand. Can you return safely to your room on your own?” he asks.

His small friend nods, but he looks incredibly saddened at his last line. He tugs at Byleth’s coat with his fingers before he can crouch to cross the hedge.

“…Will you be back? To- to your sanctuary?”

_I don’t think so._

Byleth doesn’t reply to his question. “Go back to bed,” he says instead.

The boy doesn’t give up, and his grip tightens on his sleeve.

“Mister angel…will I see you again?”

Byleth’s chest tightens. He doesn’t like lying.

_No, never._

“Maybe,” he concedes. 

The boy beams and rushes to hug him. “…When?” he asks, voice muffled by the folds of his black coat.

“Sometime in the future,” Byleth replies, before pulling back and entering the hedge.

Only when he is on the other side, the boy talks to him again.

“Even if my father told me not to tell strangers, I- I feel we’re not strangers anymore, mister angel! You should know… My name… my name is _Dimitri_!”

At that, Byleth drops the dagger in his hands onto the cold ground.

For some reason, he never noticed his heart was beating until the moment it stopped.

Then Byleth closes his eyes, and finds himself falling into darkness once more.

* * *

When Dimitri emerges from the maze, he sees that the angel has already flown away.

The only proof of their encounter; besides the cape draped over his shoulders, is his dagger, lying abandoned in the snow.

A strange symbol is carved on one side of the blade, pulsating with a faint, purple glow.

As he picks it up, the young prince can’t help but think it almost looks like a beating heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Byleth's characterization:
> 
> In this chapter, he has a human heart, so his emotions are finally "unlocked". However, he has lost all of his memories, and a good part of his knowledge about interacting with other people came from there (actually, all of it), so he's just in this kind of state where he feels emotions with a normal intensity, and has some simple and basic instincts and reactions to things ( he feels cold, he is displeased by the feeling of blood on his hands, he knows the guards will hurt him).
> 
> He only retains his "common knowledge" of the world (telling Dimitri he shouldn't go near strangers or be outside at night), but not his strictly personal one, linked to his memories.
> 
> As for Dimitri's characterization:
> 
> The prince of Faerghus is very young in here (this scene happens prior to his meeting with Edelgard), so obviously he still hasn't been through anything that made him the self-loathing, vindictive and broken individual we meet in the game. 
> 
> However, I still wanted to paint him as an awkward, clumsy yet intelligent kid, who is prone to bursts of emotion (excitement, curiosity) that manifest themselves both verbally and physically. I always imagined him to be a little out-of-synch as a little boy compared to "normal" royalty.
> 
> All in all, in this chapter he's a good and naive boy who strives to make a polite impression on strangers, yet his emotions are so strong he forgets his etiquette in following them (tugging at Byleth's clothes, speaking to him so casually etc)  
> Also, I tried to incorporate a little bit of Faerghus' religious background into his beliefs; him calling Byleth an angel is probably due to the fact the Kingdom instructs his children on the topics of the Church and its related myths (which I figured would include angels, because why not).
> 
> Thanks for reading until here <3


	3. rewrite (come to life)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, notes on characterization at the end!!
> 
> This chapter's title comes from "Rewrite", a song from Asian Kung-Fu Generation. It is widely known for being one of the openings for Fullmetal Alchemist!  
> I took the English lyrics from a cover of this song made by the band Darling Thieves. [Come to life, and rewrite. All my bad ideas, I will make them disappear before your eyes]
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, and please leave some feedback if you want! ^^

_The reason I want to spit out these sentiments, is I have no other proof I even exist._

* * *

Byleth breathes in dust and moss.

When he opens his eyes, a dim, green light fills his vision, casting a soft glow on the atmosphere around him.

The smell hits Byleth immediately, even before the disquieting, surreal silence or the unpleasant sensation of his sore limbs pressed against a cold and hard surface.

The stale air of the place is permeated by a strong scent of incense and earth, and at each breath, Byleth feels like suffocating a bit more in its unexpected familiarity.

Still numb from what feel like centuries of sleep, he takes a little while to realize he’s sitting on a raised platform in the middle of a vast rectangular room, stone walls punctuated by tall pillars sustaining the high ceiling up above. 

A lofty staircase connects his overhead dais to the marble of the floor several feet below him, on which sides Byleth can see are lined massive monoliths of various manufacturing and shapes.

_Coffins_ , something tells him. He shivers.

Somehow, Byleth immediately recognizes his surroundings, as if this particular location was imprinted inside his memory better than his own identity.

_A tomb._

“The _Holy_ Tomb, if you’d please,” comes a voice from behind.

Byleth jumps from his seat at the sudden words, almost falling from the steep set of stairs in front of him for the shock.

When he turns around, heart still beating wildly in his chest, he sees a young girl sitting where he was before: an imponent throne, decorated with a double spiral carved in its grey stone.

She’s smiling at him from underneath an unbound mass of green hair that falls around her tiny shoulders, framing her delicate face, and for a moment Byleth feels completely at ease in her presence.

Then, he snaps out of that strange sense of security and breaks the silence between them.

“Who are you? How do you know this place?” he inquires, eyeing her suspiciously.

The girl sighs wearily. “Your memories are still a bit jumbly, aren’t they? And here I was hoping you’d keep that promise you made me… well, it doesn’t matter.”

Her voice is rimmed with a slight hint of disappointment when she speaks, but she still stands up from her seat and starts approaching him, an arm outstretched in his direction.

Byleth instantly backs away at the sight, eyes wide with panic and agitation. “What promise are you talking ab-“

The girl is faster. She reaches out to him and jumps, pressing a palm to his forehead before he can utter another word. “This will do,” she says, hand glowing against his skin.

A sudden burst of energy flows through Byleth’s whole being, sharpening his senses and spreading warmth inside his chest. Images of a life he lived and cherished pass before his eyes, as emotions and memories he thought he had lost resurface once more from the deepest recesses of his mind.

Flashes of early mornings spent traveling with his father and the mercenaries across Fòdlan, hunting in the woods and enjoying their freshly caught breakfast around a campfire, singing together.

Bright, sunny afternoons in the courtyards of the Officer’s Academy, surrounded by the animated chattering of students enjoying those peaceful breaks between classes in the rose-scented gazebos.

Then, the sunset of war and destruction. Armies marching at vesper to conceal themselves in the shadows, a lone monastery opposing an entire Empire, struggling to resist.

A cruel nightfall, bringing death and desolation upon everything Byleth held dear. A five-year-long slumber, after which a ravaged, war-torn land had greeted him. The world he used to know far, far gone from his slow and unreaching grasp.

And finally, a small group of insurgents led by him under an aurora sky, fighting to break free from the Empire’s tyranny, desperately chasing daybreak in the pale hours of night’s end.

Byleth remembers all of this, and so much more.

A dagger planted deep inside Dimitri’s heart, before he jumped back for one last time to swap the king’s chest with his own, making that final, fatal correction.

The goddess’ cries, echoing Dima’s devastated pleas for help as blood pooled in Byleth’s lap, mixing with the tears of his beloved students on his skin.

_“I wanted… a future, with you._ _I wanted…to do… so many things, with all… of you.”_

A wish.

_“I would never forget anything about you, Sothis.”_

A promise.

Both of them, unfulfilled.

When Byleth’s eyes meet the bright emerald ones of the girl, he starts to cry.

“Sothis… Sothis, _what have I done_?” he says between sobs as he drops to his knees on the cold, stone floor; his figure a shaking, bawling mess. “Forgive me, Sothis… _please_ -”

She closes the distance between them and embraces him.

“I’ll always forgive you, Byleth. No matter what.”

Her tiny hands cup his face, caressing his cheeks, and Byleth tentatively wraps his arms around her shoulders, hugging her back with extreme care, as if she was a precious glass trinket he fears breaking rather than a millenary goddess.

He doesn’t know how much time he spends like that, face buried in Sothis’ neck, crying his heart out in the open as he feels it twitching inside his chest.

Maybe hours. (Maybe an instant.)

“…I missed you” he manages to say after a while, throat still sore. “I couldn’t remember anything, but I-I knew, Sothis. That you were missing. It felt- “

“Shhh, shhh… I know, Byleth, I know,” the goddess’ voice is soft as she interrupts his troubled thoughts. Her gentle hands keep patting his head, holding him tight to her chest until his breath becomes even once more.

When she speaks again after that, her tone is back to her usual self, with only faint traces of her motherly apprehension left behind.

“Now, when you’re done crying, you big **_himbo_** , we have much talking to do. You sure took your sweet time out there, you know?”

“H- _Himbo_?” Byleth does not understand the meaning of her words.

“Yes,” she replies, a fond smile popping up on her lips. “The biggest of them all. The _himboest_ of _himbos_ , really. But that’s also what makes you my favorite.”

Sothis giggles at her own last line, and even if he still doesn’t understand; her smile proves to be contagious. Byleth soon finds himself laughing with her, lying on his back against the floor of the Holy Tomb.

“What happened to me?” he asks between laughs, gasping for breath. “I’ve never felt like this. It’s like… everything’s _stronger_ , now. And my _heart_ , Sothis. You should hear it. Is this… is all of this _real_?”

There’s a sort of incredulity in his voice, mixed with wonder. It makes the goddess smile again.

“Yes, Byleth, it is. It’s all real. I’ll tell you everything I know, I promise, but first you need to tell me what happened. As you are well aware, I wasn’t with you when you first woke up.”

“So… that wasn’t a dream, either?” Byleth’s face falls.

She eyes him with a puzzled expression. “No, why? What happ-“ 

Understanding dawns on the goddess’ face.

_“Oh.”_ She says _._

A pause.

_“_ Show me _, Byleth.”_

He does.

Byleth travels back in his mind to the recollection of the snowy streets of Fhirdiad, from his afternoon stroll across the market stalls where he bought _Dimitri’s cape_ out of an ironic whim of fate up to his meeting with the young prince inside the castle gates at night, chased by guards into that giant maze.

He relives each moment, the reality and the visions, with Sothis at his side, like two scrupulous twin guardians of time. He almost feels again the soft, chilling touch of snow on his skin, of the cold fountain water washing away the blood from his hands.

By the time he’s finished, the goddess is visibly agitated.

“… _I can’t believe you dropped that_ …” she keeps murmuring to herself over and over, circling the throne with swift steps before finally looking at him in the eyes.

“Byleth, listen," she says, "I have to tell you something. But don’t panic, ok? We’ll find a solution together. Like always.”

Byleth nods. He trusts her completely.

The goddess goes on.

“So, uhm, basically… how to put this-

 _-you **died**_ **.** ”

Despite his best efforts, at that Byleth indeed panics.

“On the day of the assault on Enbarr, you used all the Divine Pulses you had,” she explains. “ ** _All_** _of them._ Can you believe that?"

Sothis huffs and averts her gaze to the ceiling, before opening her next statement with a loud grunt. 

"Ugh, I _always_ told you we should have restored those _dastards’_ statues, even if I understand your distaste for Indech after he almost ripped off your arm in his tortoise form and Macuil- well he _is_ _Macuil_ and if that doesn’t explain his problem I don’t know what ever will-”

Byleth’s small chuckles interrupt her savage rant against her children.

“ ** _Y-you_**! Why are you laugh-!” Sothis' eyes dart to him immediately, and she blushes furiously at his reaction, voice full of over-dramatic outrage.

Byleth thinks he’s gotten better at reading her.

“No, you didn’t. Not in the slightest,” she says, red cheeks still betraying her. “But well, my point- I was saying that you used all of your charges, and then I- I tried to show you something nice before you…well, before you-“ Sothis chokes on her last words, but she doesn’t need to finish her sentence for Byleth to understand her.

Suddenly, the mood grows incredibly heavy.

He nods.

“Go on,” he says. “I’m here.”

She takes one good look at him, as if she wanted to verify the authenticity of his claim.

(As to make sure he’s indeed there.)

Then, she continues.

“I just wanted to create you this ideal afterlife, where you could be happy and- “

A small, solitary tear forms in the corner of one of her eyes. Byleth rushes to her, but she halts him with her hand.

“No, I’m… It’s fine, Byleth. Let me finish, please.”

Concern doesn’t leave his features, but he obeys her.

“-And I wanted you to feel things without the limitations of my Crest, for once, even if inside that fake reality. So I sealed myself away-“ she swallows, gulping down something invisible before talking again.

“I sealed myself away, and gave you a human heart. I placed the Crest of Flames onto the first object I could find, which was- “

“-the dagger in my chest,” Byleth finishes her sentence in a strained whisper.

Sothis nods.

She’s crying now, big, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, but Byleth is completely frozen in place, paralyzed by the sudden revelation.

(Unlike him, she doesn’t stop.)

“-And the next thing I knew”, Sothis continues, “- the next thing I knew, you had transcended all the laws of space and time, and found yourself years in the past, with the powers of a goddess. _My_ _powers_ ,” she breathes out between sobs.

“I couldn’t reach you over there, and when you finally came back you wouldn’t wake up, so I went to sleep as well, for a long time. Until I found you here, wide awake and with no recollection of anything.”

Her shoulders are shaking.

She is _trembling_.

Resisting the numbness creeping up inside him, Byleth slowly moves towards her, placing the goddess inside his arms, where he can hold her close. 

“What do we do now?” he asks, voice barely more audible than his previous whisper, cracking at every word.

“... I lost your heart, Sothis.”

She shakes her head against his chest.

“No, Byleth. My heart is still inside you, as it forever shall be. You just lost the key to access its power.”

The faint wave of relief washing over him is not enough to prevent Byleth from frowning.

“What do you mean?”

The goddess inhales-

“It means that you’re fully human, now. But-“

-and exhales.

“-without the Crest, you won’t be able to use the Divine Pulse anymore.”

Byleth thinks he can pinpoint the exact instant in which his - _Sothis's_ \- heart stops beating for a moment.

Suddenly, the silence of the crypt feels horribly deafening as his world starts spinning around. 

“I- all I put you through... for _nothing_... everything we- I’m sorry, I'm-“ Byleth sputters incoherently, before Sothis cuts him off and places her hands on his shoulders, verdant jewel eyes gleaming in the penumbra.

"Snap out if it, Byleth!” she orders, hands applying a slight pressure on his joints, shaking him lightly. " _Please._ We don't have much time, you dumb-headed idiot! You did nothing wrong!"

The urgency in her words hits Byleth like a slap to his face, and he finds himself listening to her next words in complete awe. 

“You have to find the dagger, Byleth. Without it, you have no more second chances," she explains. "No rewinding time when something goes awry, no fixing mistakes after you’ve made them. But now, I’m starting to believe it was a good thing you dropped it. I was only able to summon you here after you lost your grip on that blade, after all. So please, stop blaming yourself like this." 

She flicks a finger on his forehead, and stares at him intently, searching for a sign of understanding in his midnight irises.

“...the dagger,” he finally mumbles once he draws himself together. “… _Edelgard_.”

He and Sothis nod in unison.

“You possess a significant advantage now", she begins, "the gift of knowledge. We already know that wretched girl will have the dagger from our previous timeline, as a token she received from your prince charming when they were both young.”

Byleth blushes a little in hearing the designation Sothis has used to refer to Dimitri as, but she ignores him, lost in her guesswork.

“I’d even go as far as to say you did the best possible thing when you dropped it, you _handsome idiot_ , as we already know the outcome of your gesture. What’s left is only for you to search the witch’s room at the academy and take back what’s yours.”

She ruffles his hair, and Byleth grins at her simple display of affection.

“What about you?” he asks.

Sothis shakes her head. “I hate to break this down to you, but you will be alone- until you find the dagger, that is. With it, you’ll be able to see me again -not just hear me- anytime you want. Exactly like you did before our souls merged together- **_Ah_**! That reminds me!" she squeaks.

_"-Your hair_ , Byleth!”

He looks at her, confusion creeping up on his face.

“They’re back to normal!” Excited noises follow Sothis’ words. “Have I ever told you how dark hair suited you so much better?”

He chuckles softly. “No, I believe you didn’t."

“But I just-“

“One more time, please?” 

The goddess stomps her little feet on the ground in what has become her signature gesture of childish protest.

(For the first time, Byleth thinks he’s going to miss it) 

“It’s unfair, Byleth! Don’t tease me like that!” Sothis laments, but she still complies with his request. 

(Albeit in her own, peculiar way)

“ _ **Oh** , **Professor**_ ” the goddess intones, voice dropped by an eight in a silly imitation of a deep, manly one. “How I long for your silky strands of hair in my dreams, for they remind me of the blades of grass and weeds of the monastery I love eating so m-“

“-Sothis!” Byleth exclaims, heat coloring his face, “that one time was only an unfortunate accident for Dimitri, he never intended to actually eat-“

The goddess snorts, before raising her hands up above her in a dramatic gesture of surrender. “Fine, fine! You're no fun, Byleth! I yield-” she proclaims at his sudden outburst, “lest I bully your beloved! Besides, it would have worked so much better if you still had green hair, you know? Because weeds-“

Byleth glares at her. 

“Oh, stop glaring at me, you’re actually creepy when you do that! Well, not at the same level of creepiness of that servant of Edelgard's _,_ but still- Goddess _-that would be me-_ you’re scary! I already told you, you’re so handsome with your natural hair color!”

“It’s not about that, Sothis!”

“I know, but let’s just pretend it is, ok?”

“ _What_? **No**! Only if you stop mentioning the weeds-”

In between their bickering, they burst out laughing together, perfectly in sync.

“I have to admit,” Byleth says, still chuckling, “that was a pretty good imitation, all in all.”

“Thank you,” Sothis replies softly, and her smile becomes a bit shy at the sincere words on her lips. “And that was a beautiful laugh from your side.”

When she speaks again, there’s no teasing in her voice, only genuine tenderness.

“I’m sure he’d love to hear it.”

Byleth squeezes her hand lightly, exchanging their burden in a silent promise.

(One he intends to keep.)

This time, he will fix everything.

“I’m ready, Sothis” he announces, getting up from the ground to sit on the ancient throne. “We can begin whenever you are.”

The goddess nods. “I will bring you back in time, on the day of the bandits’ attack. It's our first unavoidable event, and I can’t reach further than that, in this current state of mine. You can manage from there, right?”

Byleth smiles. He can.

“I’m going to miss you, Sothis. I’ll find the dagger, and I’ll be back to pick you up, I promise.”

This time, no scolding comes from her at his last line. Instead, a small smile forms on her lips, mirroring the one on his own. 

Byleth knows that she, too, wants to believe his words, and the thought greatly comforts him.

He closes his eyes, and waits.

“I’ll miss you too, Byleth. Now go. Come to life, and rewrite,” she says. "I’ll be waiting.”

As golden particles of light start to envelop him, dancing in the air around them, Byleth remembers a crucial detail they never discussed. “Wait, Sothis!” he calls, but he's too far gone in the resplendent glow to see her on its other side.

“I forgot to ask you what a _himbo_ was!”

The last thing Byleth hears before being blinded by the lights is the goddess' amused laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On Byleth's characterization: 
> 
> As of this chapter, Byleth regains his memory; and having both his memories back and his emotions unlocked sends him into a state where he feels everything at once, and he's simply overwhelmed by the sudden intensity of it all.
> 
> In this chapter, he laughs and he cries ( he cries a lot, he's such a crybaby here <3) because they are the most basic ways of expressing the opposite feelings he's experiencing with newfound strength. 
> 
> This, however, does not mean he knows how to properly interact, behave, or empathize: he's still this huge dork who (for the most part) has no clue about a lot of things, but he's figuring out, and he will get better, I promise.
> 
> Thanks again for surviving my wild rants and supporting me <3


	4. hologram (a perfect scene)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> wait- is Byleth seeing DOUBLE ? ohohoho

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, more serious notes on characterization at the end!!
> 
> Chapter's title taken from a FMA:B opening, "Hologram", English lyrics by Amalee.  
> [Paint for me a perfect scene as pure as white can be]
> 
> I Hope you'll enjoy the chapter, and let me know what you think about it in the comments! Thank you so much to everyone leaving kind words, kudos or bookmarks, I love you all so much <33333

_Showing me a world like nothing I have ever seen, I can only tremble_ _where I stand, looking at a perfect hologram._

* * *

Byleth breathes in underwood and open skies.

When he comes back to his senses, he finds himself in the middle of a forest, desperately rushing on autopilot through vegetation and mud, his limbs moving on their own towards an unknown destination. 

The low branches hanging from the trees above scratch his face at his passage, opening small, shallow cuts on his cheeks that Byleth hopes won’t scar. He grits his teeth, trying to ignore the stinging sensation of flesh and blood exposed to the brisk, early spring air of the Oghma Mountains.

_Sothis. Is this really necessary? I can run on my o-_

He freezes.

The sudden awareness of the goddess’ absence in his mind hits Byleth like a well-thrown punch in the gut, almost sending him flying face down in the mud.

He knows that the only reason he manages to keep his balance and avoid a ruinous and dirty fall is because whatever sorcery Sothis has put on his body, it’s apparently stronger than his own control over it. And yet-

_-Sothis._

_Sothis is gone._

Loneliness creeps up over him, and Byleth shuts off his thoughts altogether, focusing on the task ahead.

He has an important mission to accomplish, something he must do at all costs, even if alone.

(Even if it feels like he’s lost a part of himself.)

_Sothis is-_

Byleth keeps running.

* * *

It’s only when he reaches a clearing in the woods, the sounds of clashing steel reverberating in the air around him, that Byleth finally regains control of his legs.

The area is swarming with bandits that have rushed out of the forest to attack a small group of young boys and girls amassed in its center, wielding training weapons in their hands and yelling in complete panic.

He sees that some of them have distanced themselves from the rest, trying to sneak their way out of the woods and past the bandits alone. Byleth shakes his head.

_Bad move._

He hurries to their aid, intercepting a robust bandit that’s charging at a young girl sporting the Officer’s Academy uniform with an axe in his hands and a killing intent in his eyes.

She has fallen to the ground and is crouched up against a tree, trying to shield herself from the incoming blow with her bare hands, looking completely helpless.

A quick dash in his direction is all Byleth needs to disarm the man with ease, twisting his arm until the tendrils snap and his axe falls on the ground. The Sword of the Creator rests heavily against his hip, but he doesn’t reach for it.

Instead, he takes the bandit’s head into his hands and breaks his neck in one swift motion.

The girl screams in terror.

Byleth immediately feels bad.

“I’m sorry you had to see this. Go to the others, it’s safer there,” he tells her, gesturing at the other students still grouped in the center. “I’ll take care of the bandits in the area. Where are your house leaders?”

She raises an arm to point in a direction in the woods, fingers trembling.

“W-we got separated… o-our teacher ran away-“

Byleth scowls.

 _Coward_.

He vaguely remembers Edelgard mentioning something like that when he rescued the royal trio in his previous timeline, yet now that he knows the Adrestian Empress was the one to orchestrate the bandits’ attack in the first place, Byleth wonders if she had somehow disposed of their precedent professor as well, or even worked alongside him.

“Don’t worry,” he says, helping the girl up from her spot on the ground. “I’m the new teacher here. Are you hurt?”

He knows she isn’t, but he feels like it would be nice to ask. The girl shakes her head as expected, yet doesn't move, so he just heaves her in his arms.

“Good. This way will be quicker, please don’t struggle. I’ll bring you to the other students, don’t get separated this time.”

He feels her arms wrapping around his neck as he carries her to safety, bridal-style, and a chorus of surprised _oohs_ and excited squeaks erupts from her classmates once he crosses the clearing and puts her down among them.

“Uhm, are you new, professor…?” she asks once his hands release their grip from her waist.

“Byleth. Byleth Eisner,” he replies, borrowing a sword from one of the students. He really doesn’t want to use the Sword of the Creator, unless it’s absolutely necessary. “And yes, I am. Sort of.”

“C-could I join your class?”

“Me too!” screams another girl from behind.

“Oh, please, I asked first, you _hag_!”

“Take me into all of your seminars, Professor Eisner!”

Byleth smiles lightly, a bit overwhelmed by their sudden enthusiasm and all the attention he’s receiving. “I’ll think about it,” he says, before entering into the fray with the academy’s dull training sword in hand.

He has absolutely no idea how to explain to them he still doesn’t, _in fact_ , have a _class_.

* * *

Dealing with the bandits proves to be rather simple, as the only hardship consists in ensuring the safety of all the students around him.

Their movements are slow and rough, almost beast-like, and between easy dodges and parries, Byleth thinks how different this all feels compared to his days of future past, when he had fought elite fighters daily, walking upon immense battlefields tattered with so many corpses and bloodshed it would have been impossible to save each dying soldier there even with a thousand Divine Pulses.

Back then, he had been selfish. He had only rewound time for his closest students and allies, while he let other unnamed soldiers fall and stay on the ground, casting judgement upon who deserved a second chance and who was deemed expendable in the price of that war.

He had saved Sylvain at least a dozen times, and yet spared no second thought for an unknown face among his troops.

Looking back at it, Byleth feels nauseous towards himself. Those soldiers had people waiting for them at home, too. _A family, a lover, an old friend. Projects for the future, wishes and aspirations._

He had the power to save them, and yet- not them _all_. Never them all, and exactly choosing _who_ had been the worst part of it.

This time, Byleth knows he has to make sure this war won’t happen in the first place. He wants to see the future generation of Fòdlan growing up with both parents at their side, he wants to visit the various countries and see beautiful flower fields, not war-torn cities, suffering famine and diseases.

Besides, he doesn’t have another dozen Pulses to spare for Sylvain now.

(In fact, he has none at all, and to Byleth it feels like he’s straight up walking into battle both naked and unarmed, for the first time in his life.)

He wonders how many of the students he’s seeing now have died in that war he fought. Faces he doesn’t remember, that might have been there, killed by the Empire.

Or killed by _him_.

The same faces that are now cheering at his every move against these bandits.

For some reason, Byleth feels reticent to kill them.

It would be easy, he thinks. One thrust of his sword under their ribs, right where the skin is softer.

Only one, and their sloppy attacks would cease entirely, suffocated by the blood pooling at their feet.

Only one-

-But it’s not easy, not when it feels like he’s casting judgement again where he has no rights to.

Has war softened him? Probably. Or maybe it’s this new heart of his. It feels too big, too wide for his chest. It aches terribly at every breath.

Byleth wonders if it’s defective, somehow.

In the past, he used to kill people for money with his father and the mercenaries without so much as blinking; always, always with a straight face. Always without a second thought, no traces of compassion or regret to be seen in his eyes, only absolute apathy.

They had called him the Ashen Demon, back then. They had been right to do so.

But, had he always been? A merciless, emotionless demon? A soulless blade, made only to kill and wreak havoc on the battlefield?

Is he still one, even now?

He thinks he remembers crying in his past life as well. For his father, and for Dima.

And then during the war, where more people than he could count had died under his eyes, briefly escaping their demise with one of his Pulses only to get killed in the next battle.

He had cried for them too, he believes, on those nightmarish days and nights following a fight, counting the dead while planning the next strategy.

Yet, it was always raining, back then. Had those really been his tears, or just falling raindrops?

Byleth is not sure.

He always shared with Sothis the gift of having a terrible memory, after all.

He keeps dodging hits with grace, ducking down and striking with his palm open behind the bandits’ necks, sending them unconscious onto the ground.

At each loud thud that follows their fall, he is reminded of the sharp sound the creaking of bone made under his hands when he saved that girl, and shivers.

_A family, a lover, an old friend. Projects for the future, wishes and aspirations._

Perhaps, the more you are stripped of everything you love, the more you realize how these things matter to you, Byleth thinks.

How these things matter to the people _around_ you.

(Even lowly bandits.)

He stops his battle dance only when a pile of inert bodies litters the ground at his feet.

“Tie them up,” he instructs the students, “they won’t open their eyes for quite some time, so they’re completely harmless now. Make sure to wait for my return here, we’ll bring them to the monastery together.”

A chorus of awestruck ‘ _yes’_ follows his words a tad too eagerly than what he had anticipated, and Byleth finds himself smiling at them.

Then, he delves into the thick foliage of the woods, hoping he’s still in time to save Dimitri and Claude while hopefully watching Edelgard get chopped up by the bandit’s leader axe.

* * *

When he sees his father, Byleth almost cries.

Jeralt is alone, riding on his steed through the bushes, successfully fending off the bandits attacking him from all directions.

He’s as every bit as Byleth remembered him to be: a stern face and squared features that hid so much tenderness underneath; a broad, toned back, honed by years of training on the battlefield. Hair the color of the Almyran sand, glowing under the pale light of dawn filtering through the trees. A pair of muscular, yet gentle arms maneuvering the lance in his hands with mastery and expertise.

For a moment, Byleth is completely paralyzed, and can only watch as his father’s opponents fall down one by one, slashes of crimson opening up on their bodies where their skin had come in touch with the pole weapon.

He makes sure Jeralt is unharmed, and before his dad can turn around and notice him staring from behind the trees, Byleth disappears inside the vegetation.

The future, first.

Always, always the future, first.

Then, and only then he’ll be able to look at his dad and everyone else again, once he makes sure Edelgard is cold and unmoving in front of his eyes.

Once he makes sure that the seed of that infernal war gets eradicated before it can grow roots and blossom, festering the land he cherished until a wilted rose is all that remains of it.

* * *

When he sees Claude, Byleth thinks he’ll need to convince him to join his side somehow, without the cheap tricks Edelgard pulled at both their armies at Gronder Field to interfere with their diplomatic alliance.

Despite his jovial approach; the Golden Deer leader, all jokes and mischievous teasing, had always seemed unreachable to him in some way, just like deep waters which Byleth could only ever see the surface of.

He remembers seeing him slide in the shadows of the monastery halls more than once at night, when he thought no one was watching; and Byleth wonders what's lurking beneath his waves, if hidden treasures or dangerous, deadly monsters. 

Still, there was something utterly mesmerizing and captivating about the way the young noble wielded his bow on the field and talked about tactics; something that had made Byleth consider him more than just a valuable asset in his past life, even if he couldn’t quite place his half-hearted words at times.

As Sothis once said, his smile was one that didn’t reach his lips, and that impression had stuck on his mind for their every other interaction together.

Now, watching him strive in the heat of battle, Byleth quickly realizes he doesn’t actually know anything about the man, except for the fact that he was _most_ certainly not from Fòdlan, and it had been his own intuition and knowledge of the various ethnicities spread across the continent to suggest him so, not a direct approach with the subject of his speculations.

Short, yellow cape draped over one of his shoulders, fluttering in the wind like a single, lonely wing, he witnesses Claude strike down the bandits with precise arrows to their heads and vows to get to know him better, this time.

Of all his arrows, not a single one misses its target. 

* * *

When he sees Dimitri, his heart stops and then beats again.

He’s once again the perfect, composed prince everyone expects him to be, blond bangs cut neatly over his forehead and an elegant, black and blue uniform plastered to his fit and lean body.

_Dima, armor dark as night, covered in blood and filth, who had been so lost in his abysses of despair to remember to take care of himself._

The lance in his hands is still perfectly clean as he uses it to knock down bandit after bandit with its wooden shaft rather than the deadly, metallic tip.

_Dima, who enjoyed violence so much he hated himself for it, who had relished in the massacre of pillagers in an abandoned Garreg Mach, bathing in their demise._

There are no traces of weeks of sleep-deprived nights under his eyes, of madness and desire for revenge in his smile, of gore staining his greasy, unkempt hair.

_Dimitri, not Dima._

And yet, a part of Byleth knows that underneath that charming façade, the frail, self-loathing man that had such high hopes for the world and the people around him even after having been betrayed by them both still stays.

And yet, a part of him hopes he doesn’t.

Byleth knows things would be so much better for Dimitri if he could just be that ideal, pretty boy he tried so desperately to become, if the Tragedy of Duscur never happened, if he had the chance to grow up with a father that didn’t die and a mother that actually cared for him.

If his stepsister hadn't waged war on an entire continent, destroying everything he cared for, everyone he wanted to save.

If he had been loved and cherished in every moment of his life, just like he deserved to be.

If he had known happiness instead of endless pain, friendship instead of abandon, family instead of loss.

If he had been taught love instead of hate, if kisses had replaced the scars that adorned his body even now, five years before other ones would line up on his skin.

But without all of these things, would he still be his Dima?

Byleth ponders this, even if he already knows the answer.

He watches him fight at the crack of dawn, sunlight shining over his figure like a silent omen of good fortune.

Yes, Byleth is sure of it.

There’s no one else he would wish to spend his future with, other than Dima.

(Always, always him.)

But this boy in front of him is not Dima, not yet, and if it means for him to be happy from the beginning, to save him from all his ghosts before they could haunt him, then…

..Then he would gladly lose his own happiness again and again, if only to give this Dimitri a chance to never grow up into the Dima he knew.

The same Dima who would require to be broken, hurt and betrayed many more times than what he already has, just to become like the one he left behind.

So Byleth turns his back to him, and whispers farewell to the one he loves.

* * *

When he sees Edelgard, he wants to rip her chest open and tear her heart apart.

She’s running from the bandits, pretending to be scared and surprised by their sudden appearance.

_Liar._

She helps Claude to stand up after he falls during a swift dodge, looking horrified at the sight of the fresh and red cut running across his arm.

_Witch._

She fights side to side with Dimitri, covering his back when she’s the one who set up this farce to dispose of the prince, hoping to have him dead by morning come.

_Beast._

She parries attack after attack with her axe, probably having ordered the bandits to fight her and support her innocent act.

_Snake._

She falls to the ground, cornered by the bandit’s leader who has gone rogue against her. There’s a look of sheer, genuine terror in her eyes this time.

For a moment, Byleth sees something else in her, just like he did on the day he died, where she stood before him in the throne room.

_A girl. Alone, defeated._

He dispels the unwelcomed image that invited itself into his mind, and instinctively brings a hand to his chest, in the spot where her cursed dagger had pierced his lung.

 _So much for sparing monsters_ , he thinks.

Byleth is sure he'd choose to see the perfect scene of Edelgard lying dead at his feet over the uncanny sight of her accepting Dima's hand amidst the carnage of the imperial palace every day. 

_Fiend. Demon. Wretched, rotten girl--_

_Dimitri's stepsister. The only blood relative he has left._

_Monster. Monster. Monst--_

_Someone Dima cared for._

He wonders how long she will take to die. Both the other two leaders are too far away to help her now, and she is struggling against her opponent due to her lack of agility and physical build compared to the sturdier man.

Then she slips on the mud, and the bandit's axe starts descending on her, reaching for her back.

For a moment; among the triumphant screams inside him, Byleth feels a crazed, deranged hint of regret for not having stepped up and helped the Empress.

_A family, a lover, an old friend. Projects for the future, wishes and aspirations._

He wonders if Edelgard had ever held any of these things dear to her in that war. If she had been more than a demonic husk full of hatred, seeking to control humanity.

He feels like asking himself these questions is worthless. She is his enemy, and will keep being such.

_Right?_

As he watches the jagged blade coming closer and closer to her skin, Byleth’s feet move on his own, and the next thing he hears is the hideous sound of flesh being horribly mutilated by metal.

He raises his head to look at the scene in front of his eyes, blood pooling at his feet.

There’s someone standing between the bandit’s axe and Edelgard, where his feet couldn’t reach in time.

A girl, about the same age as him, with hair his exact same hue of midnight blue.

A perfect hologram of himself, taken exactly out of the moment when he first jumped in front of that axe to save Edelgard in a time that doesn’t exist anymore, and learnt how to use the power of the goddess.

Her arm is hanging loosely from the shoulder, where the axe has struck not hard enough to severe it in one single strike, yet with sufficient strength to cut through flesh and tendrils; and judging by the amount of blood flowing from the cut, it looks like she will bleed to death if it’s not treated immediately.

Byleth rushes at her side, trying to conjure a healing spell to stop the hemorrhage, but then the girl does something unexpected.

She raises her other arm in front of her, and a sound he thought he’d never hear again resonates in his ears once more.

Glass shatters, time stops, and he finds himself inside a well-known limbo of stillness.

Alone, with that girl.

The girl who has just used a Divine Pulse before his eyes, and dragged him into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man. Byleth's really growing up here, huh? Finally, he's starting to process a lot of things, and changing his perception of the world based on them.
> 
> He's looking back at a lot of things, and the way he can now feel everything in a stronger way is making him empathize a lot more with people that he once didn't care for (soldiers, bandits, generic human beings who weren't closely associated with him). 
> 
> During his academy + war days, his emotions only extended to people that he knew very well -his father, the mercenaries, Sothis; or to people that he thought he needed to protect despite not knowing them very well (at least at the start of his teaching period) -his students, his colleagues.
> 
> Now, it's not the death of a particular person that hits him, but the idea of death in general, because he has experienced it first-handedly and also seen how other people coped with it, and mostly in a very bad way (Dimitri going full-boar mode, Felix shutting himself off, etc.) 
> 
> Death is no longer something normal to him, and he wants to avoid it because he understands that it can make other people suffer even if it doesn't touch him directly.  
> Of course, he's still mad at Edelgard, but even then he hesitates and actually debates whether to jump in and save her or not. His emotions are now > logic (almost).
> 
> (I'm so proud of him twt)
> 
> Thanks again for reading, surviving my ramblings and being awesome leaving kudos and comments <3


	5. act of courage (hold my hand)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers, and thank you for supporting this story! <3
> 
> This chapter's title is taken from e v e's song "As You Like It" [Holding hands with you is an act of courage for me]

_Hey, I don't even understand the meeting of my selves._ _We steadily close the gap, b_ _ut we remain far apart._

* * *

This time, Byleth doesn’t breathe.

Instead, he holds all the air inside his lungs and takes in the sight of the purple-tinted, motionless reality around him.

The girl is standing before his eyes, perfectly still, her body shielding Edelgard’s immobile figure.

Byleth thinks she could almost look like one of the objects caught in time’s freezing, were it not for the panicked expression in her big, indigo irises, and the light heaving of her chest.

They stare at each other in complete silence; and under the innatural light, Byleth sees how alike he and this girl actually are, besides having the same hair color.

A long-sleeved coat draped loosely over her shoulders, she's dressed in full-black, with only slight accents of pink and gold to highlight her chest.

Dark teal hair frames her fair face, cascading around her neck and resting atop her collarbones in a messy haircut that on him only reaches the back of his neck.

Whereas he has a sharp and lean jawline, the girl has rounder, softer cheeks; but there's the same delicacy to both their features and in the way their tiny nose curves prettily upwards, creating a lovely profile whenever they tilt their heads to the side. 

Whenever Byleth glances at her, he can't help but notice that despite hers being bigger, the striking, light shade of purple of their eyes is the same.

Everything in this girl -from her style of clothing to her physical appearance- is just like looking in a mirror that’s reflecting an absurd, illogical ‘what if’ scenario in front of him.

Byleth tries to brush off his nonsensical thoughts, yet he can’t deny the fact that except for maybe her slightly revealing fishnets, this is exactly how he would look and dress like if he were born a gir—

“Who are you?” she dryly cuts in, interrupting his mentations. 

Her voice is steady when she speaks, but there’s still a hint of panic lingering on her lips that she can’t fully conceal.

Byleth swallows hard, as he realizes two undeniable truths.

One; They look like one and the same, as far as being of the opposite sex allows them to bear an uncanny resemblance.

Two; This girl can use the Divine Pulse. By extension, this girl has access to the powers of the goddess.

Just like he, too, had in his past life.

And that could only mean one thing.

“I think,” he begins, finally breathing out, “that I might be y—”

“ _ **Wha** —!_”

A loud gasp arises from behind, intruding on their small exchange.

Byleth frowns. (He’s getting interrupted a lot, today.)

Then, the gasp turns into a single, deafening word.

“……. **_Byleth_**??!!”

In between hearing the familiar tone and witnessing the girl turn her head to their new interlocutor at the mention of his - _her_ \- **_their_** \- name, Byleth almost has a heart attack.

(Surprisingly, he still manages to maintain a certain degree of composure, even if the sudden thundering in his chest followed by a total lack of beats has him slightly worried. After all, he believes this is not how a heart is supposed to work)

Byleth doesn’t need to turn around to know whom that voice belongs to, but he still does, completely left in a daze.

When he looks behind his shoulder, an impossible sight greets him.

Sothis is staring at the both of them with a look of considerable bewilderment on her face, hands pressed against her open mouth in a feeble try at suppressing the high-pitched squeaks coming from it.

“…No way,” she says, still visibly shocked. “Oh my… I really want to say ‘ _Goddess’_ right now, but I fear that would be a little pretentious, given my position. _Ugh!_ What does a goddess even say, in this kind of situation?!”

Between him and his female alter-ego, she is the first to break out of her stupor.

“Sothis, what is the meaning of this?” she asks, and Byleth realizes the girl must be the least shocked out of their unlikely trio. Still, her eyes are so wide they look like they’re about to pop out of her skull, so that’s saying something about their current situation.

“Byleth;” Sothis begins, and the girl looks at her expectantly.

The goddess waves her off. “No, not you,” she says, gesturing at him. “I meant Byleth- Byleth him. Boy-Byleth.”

_Byleth-him?_ He stares at her in disbelief, playing her words on repeat in his head. **_‘_** _Boy-Byleth?_ ** _’_**

Sothis has apparently decided to ignore his silent protest at her choice of nicknames, or maybe she just can’t read his thoughts anymore, Byleth wonders, because she doesn’t spare him a glance until he snorts.

“The first,” comes her entertained reply. “But listen, Byleth. I have something important to say. It… appears we’ve broken time and space, you and I.”

Byleth looks at her, and -if possible- he’s more confused than before, so she spares him an apologetic smile after mumbling something about his _himbo_ condition and starts explaining.

* * *

“So”, Byleth begins, hesitant, “there are more dimensions than this one, and more _me_ s for each of those, and you’ve seen all these different versions of myself making different choices in every one of them.”

His last line is as much a question as it is a statement, given the fact he’s not sure if he has fully comprehended everything the goddess just said; but he’s glad Sothis doesn’t seem to mind his uncertain tone as she nods solemnly.

“To greatly sum it up…yes, that would be it. Even if calling them simply other ‘yous’ is a huge understatement. Each one of them was different, in their own, unique way. Just as you are, Byleth. Also, that’s the most I’ve ever heard you speak. I’m _impressed_.”

“ _Thank you_ ” he replies politely. With Sothis, it’s hard to tell whether something is a compliment or a joke, especially since he’s still rather lacking in whatever it takes to successfully discern between the two.

In all response, she simply giggles, but Byleth is too curious about what she has just revealed to drop the subject entirely like that.

“What… what happened, in the other worlds?” he finally musters up the courage to ask, even if it feels like something he shouldn’t have, in a way. Like forbidden knowledge of some sort, an ancient casket he ought to leave sealed without trying to pry into its contents, lest it reveals some inescapable and cruel truth.

(And yet, he keeps picking at this mysterious lock hiding the secrets of the Universe)

“Were there also…different versions of Dima? Of all the others?”

Sothis’ giggle fades, replaced by a soft, tender smile at his questions. He doesn’t know why, but she only acknowledges his second one.

“Yes, there were.” She replies, and Byleth watches her lips thin a little before going on. He thinks he now gets -if only a little, what she meant with her affirmation on Claude, about how his smile never reached his eyes. She has his same expression, right now.

“-Sometimes, I mean. You see, some of them….” Sothis trails off, never finishing her sentence.

Byleth understands anyway.

He doesn’t want to dwell on what living so many lives and seeing so many people die before her eyes could have meant for Sothis; not when one lifetime had been enough for him to feel like he was being consumed alive by flames at every rewind, so he just takes a few steps in her direction and wraps his arms around her.

Back at the Academy, Byleth remembers he had often been the subject of teasing amidst his students for being a terrible hugger. “ _You’re too stiff, Professor!_ ” they used to tell him, laughing, and “ _You can’t hold a boy like you do with a girl_! _Put your hands here, like this--_ ”

And yet, for some reason Byleth still can’t comprehend, and despite all claims against his embracing technique, there had often been people in dire need of a hug waiting for him on his porch and in front of his door, when nights were long and still filled with the horrors of war.

One by one, Byleth had complied, arms wrapping around their different figures, tall and short, slim and bulky; soothing their wounds with his quiet listening and a hot-brewed cup of their favourite tea until the nightmares were gone.

Perhaps, Byleth thinks, he wasn’t as bad of a hugger as they made him out to be.

Or maybe his students had just been _very_ desperate.

(Which is probably the most likely out of the two options, he figures)

In any case, Byleth knows he can work with this, especially since Sothis doesn’t try to oppose resistance and instead slips into his arms with ease, silently nestling against his chest.

There are a million questions that want to escape his lips, a million answers he needs to hear, but he rejects every single one of them and just whispers to the goddess “I’m sorry, Sothis,” before holding her with his usual care.

He can feel her leaning into him, and suddenly something wet starts dripping from her face down to his lap, dampening the fabric of his shirt.

_Tears?_

He scowls.

 _Are you crying, Soth_ —

“—‘m not.. _idiot,_ ” he hears her mumbling, voice muffled by his chest armor. “You’re mistaking me for your crybaby arse. But…”

Her last line is barely something more than a whisper “-- Let’s stay like this a moment longer, please.”

(Luckily, Byleth has good hearing)

He smiles softly through the green strands tickling his cheeks. “Ok--”

“-- ** _A-Ahem_** ”

A loud, slightly embarrassed cough comes from their side, interrupting their family- bonding time.

Sothis abruptly jerks away from him, and her face is ablaze as she turns to look at--

\--The girl.

Byleth had completely forgotten about her presence.

(And, judging by Sothis’reaction, he knows that at least he hadn’t been the only one)

As he stares at her, he finds it hard to discern what kind of action is going on in her mind.

_Evaluating? Doubting? Believing?_

_Her eyes are so difficult to read_ , Byleth thinks. Compared to Sothis’ earnest and open stare, or Dima’s bright sky blue clouded with storms, hers is somewhat neutral. Blank, almost, now that the previous hint of panic inside them is gone.

Just like the flat, calm surface of an impossibly still sea.

He faintly remembers seeing it in his mirror every morning, many years ago. Byleth believes that after a while, he had simply stopped looking, and placed the piece of furniture elsewhere.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, it is Sothis who breaks the silence.

“Byleth,” she says, this time pointing at the girl, “we need your aid.”

She nods in understanding at the finality of that request, and the goddess continues.

“I am unsure myself about how all of this happened… it’s the first time two of… _you,”_ she gestures at the both of them, “…are together. I simply intended to send Byleth-boy back in his own time, and for some strange turn of events, we tore the very fabric of reality in doing so! How bothersome, isn’t it?... Well, unfortunately, I am of no use to anyone in this weakened state of mine, and repairing that fracture... I fear that is something I cannot do, at the moment.”

At her grim announcement, the questions he tried to suppress come resurfacing once more, in a stream that Byleth is afraid will flood everything in its course. But, there is something, a _contradiction_ , that he simply can’t ignore--

The words escape his mouth before he can even think about them.

“What did you _do_ , Sothis?”

She blinks at him in surprise, but he does not relent.

“How did you bring me back?” he asks, voice full of a horrified understanding that’s steadily dawning on him. “I… I had used all of my Divine Pulses.”

A pause. A beat, and then another, before his heart stops again with a single phrase.

“…You’re not the only one with a Pulse, Byleth.”

When he looks at her again, for a moment, right where the green-haired girl he’s known for all his life usually is, Byleth sees the goddess of ancient lore, the one depicted in legends and works of art. 

Suddenly, she’s incredibly ancient and beautiful, brimming with such terrifying power it makes his knees tremble and his body shake in adoration and fear. But also, he doesn't miss the way her smile looks infinitely weary and tired now, as if she’s straining herself immensely just to do that simple action.

He struggles to find the words to reply, as the implications of what she has just said hit him at full force, leaving him breathless.

_Sothis._

_Sothis has--_

The last person Byleth had expected to talk in that situation is the first who does so.

“…What can I do for you?” the girl asks, facing Sothis.

Her tone is uncertain, yet subdued. There’s a strange warmth to it, in the way her offer is laced with sincere trust, that makes him smile a little.

“ Help him, please,” the goddess replies, but she’s Sothis again. “I want you to help him with everything you can, Byle— No, wait."

She stops for a second, lost in thought.

"... I cannot keep calling you the same. You need something more _unique_. Hmmm, let me think about it…”

“I… quite like Byleth” he manages to say in a faint act of protest, once he overcomes his stun. He can't imagine being called something else, ever. 

Sothis nods at him. “And you?” she turns to the girl, a silent question on her lips. _Do you desire a different name?_

The latter just shrugs, and Sothis brings her hand to her chin in a pensive expression.

“… Hmm, well then, let me think about it. How about…

_.....Bel_?”

Byleth thinks about it. It’s a good nickname.

Apparently, the girl is of his same mind, because her eyes glint at its mention.

Sothis claps her hands gleefully, pleased with her choice. “ _Bel_ , then. Bel, I will entrust him to you,” she says.

“I understand this is an act of courage I’m asking of you, but… I really need you to take his hand, and guide him through the future. Take good care of this himbo for me,” she instructs, smiling fondly.

“As for him…" she turns to face him, this time. "Do you like _Ben_?”

Byleth shivers. “….Please no, Sothis.”

She chuckles, light as air. "And don’t worry” she interjects, before he can even begin to form the dreaded question, “I will be with Bel all the time. We’ll still be able to talk through her, you know?”

“Yes, but…it really feels like goodbye, now” he says dejected, turning away to face the still scenery. Byleth doesn’t try to hide the sadness in his voice, and he thinks Sothis must have noticed, too, because she comes closer. 

“You’re really a hopeless idiot, **_Ben_** ,” the goddess teases, but her voice is surprisingly tender.

“I shall ever be with you, as I said countless times. Don’t forget I am a part of yourself,” she remarks. “But now, I am afraid our time here has come to an end. You must go, and discuss future events in detail. I trust both of you, completely, to change this world for the better. I shall go, now. ”

_No._ Byleth thinks. 

_Not yet, not before_ \--

“--Sothis, wait!” he calls, before the goddess can restart the flow of time. “I need to know… what did I do, in those other paths you mentioned?”

At his simple question, she looks away. Byleth thinks he recognizes a sad smile at the corners of her lips.

“You just… made different decisions, Byleth. That’s all.”

That's not all, and Byleth knows it. But at the same time, he knows better than to engage in a battle of wits with Sothis, especially when she clearly doesn’t want to talk about something.

(Especially when she is hurting.)

So Byleth drops the subject, and falls silent. 

Sothis appears relieved, and she holds his gaze again. 

“As you have realized, certain things… are for me to bear, Byleth. But I’m glad you understand. Sometimes- I believe that if I could, I would just prefer to forget about a lot of them.”

He wonders what she meant with her last line, but he knows she doesn’t want him to ask anything even remotely related to that, so he doesn’t.

But among all of his future-related, possibly life-saving and altruistic questions for the greater good of the world; there’s a single, selfish one. One he didn't dare to mention. 

The least important of them all, and still- one that he wishes to know the answer to, dearly.

_Why…me?_

The words Byleth wants to pronounce yet cannot speak, for he doesn’t trust how his voice will sound if he does.

_Why did you sacrifice yourself for me, Sothis?_

The goddess beams, and she’s just like a bright, falling star as she closes the distance between them to place a small kiss on his forehead.

“I know it’s unfair," Sothis begins, "that a grandma should treat all their grandchildren equally and that you’re a big himbo, but…. As I told you, you are my favorite, Byleth. Have you already forgotten that?” she whispers into his ear.

“Now go, go and don’t turn back. I think… I think it will begin to rain very soon, here.”

She takes a few steps back, and he sees that in her eyes, it already has.

_Thank you, Sothis. For everything._

Byleth smiles, and turns to the girl, offering her his hand.

“Together,” he says, as the radiant dawn begins to filter through the cracks between past and future.

An imperceptible nod of her head, as she hesitantly grabs it. “Together” she replies, as they enter into the light.

Their act of courage, hand in hand.


	6. diver (breathe)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what's better than one time/dimension-travel sweet boi? TWO time/dimension travel sweet bois ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Nico Touches the Walls's song Diver!
> 
> As always thank you for reading, and supporting <3  
> I'm not a native-English speaker, so any corrections or suggestions are really, really appreciated!

_I’m unable to breathe even amongst the crowds of frozen people. How long has it been since I dived into this place?_

* * *

__

~~Personal Journal of Byleth Eisner~~

~~Byleth’s Journal~~

~~Professor Eisner’s Diary~~

~~Secret Archive of potential world-threatening information~~

_My Diary_

_Sunday 20 th \- Great Tree Moon_

_Sothis insisted that I took up writing a personal diary in my free time to sum up the events of my past life and better report them, but I’m afraid I’m already terrible at this after a few lines._

_I suppose I’m burning this afterward as per her indications on maintaining secrecy, so it really doesn’t matter-_

His hand crumples the paper in front of his eyes, and Byleth sighs.

He’s been sitting at the big mahogany desk of his not-so-new room at the Academy for hours, wasting almost an entire afternoon away twiddling the quill in his hands between ball after ball of messed up paragraphs and splotches of black ink, and he’s reached a point where he has decided he absolutely loathes writing things -be it letters or diary entries like this one.

In his past life, even as a professor Byleth had always preferred a more direct method of instruction to theoretical seminars and lessons -which had meant spending his time with his students on the training grounds instead of their class, away from all the chalkboards and paperwork; slamming weapon against weapon and conjuring spell after spell in what he had hoped one day would truly make a difference for those kids in battle.

(It did)

Yet, even if not so prone on the art of writing himself, Byleth had always admired the way the Blue Lions communicated with their families – or at least those who still had them- with elegant and practiced strokes of quill on paper, the black ink flowing onto the parchment almost effortlessly from the metallic tip. They had made it seem so easy. Automatic, almost.

Which clearly had been a huge understatement on his part, judging by the mess on his desk and the poor state of his stained fingernails.

Byleth grunts.

He _hates_ dirtying his hands.

Pulling out a cloth from the small chest that serves as his wardrobe, he cleans himself up as best as he can, knowing that most likely the stains will still persist until a much-needed hot soak in the academy’s bathhouse Byleth plans on doing right after dinner, screw indigestion and all that.

Returning his gaze to his black nails indeed confirms his suppositions to be true, and earns another long sigh from him.

In a way, Byleth can’t be too mad with himself -he supposes he just never had someone to write to, not during his atypical childhood spent roaming the world with no place for stationary affections in his vagrant lifestyle, and not in his early teenage days when people ran away from him at the mere sight of the one they referred to as 'Ashen Demon'.

Besides, he also thinks he probably learned how to use a sword way before a pen, which he admits is a thought both amusing and a tad worrying.

Still, when he had finally found some people around his age and a place to stay for a little more than the measly weeks Byleth was used to, he had fallen into that five-year-long beauty sleep no Hilda could ever rival, and awakened into a war-ravaged land where letters were nothing more than orders or requests for aid. No pleasantries, no nice recounting of events or old times.

Just plain, functional strategy.

But truth be told, a part of him does believe he could have exchanged them with his Lions, in a time of peace. After the war, when he had hoped to reply to a certain long-due wedding invitation from the newly appointed Duke Fraldarius and his fiery, red-headed fiancé of a Margrave once the two had sorted out their feelings for each other. Or maybe tell Ingrid that he wouldn’t miss her investiture as the King’s official guard knight for the world as he penned a _yes_ as bold and big as he could on paper. Or again, trading recipes with Mercedes and Dedue over mail, those same ones they had practiced in the little time spent cooking meals together, trying to remember the perfect quantities to write down for them to reenact his roasted pheasant in its full glory.

Perhaps even helping Annette to come up with new lyrics for her songs, or giving Ashe wistful advice on the best gifts for a very blonde and beautiful lady-knight, as his quill traced a long list of classic heroic tales after a thorough research at the library.

Even if he didn’t know a thing about composing music, or knightly books, or love advice.

Even if he hated writing.

(Somehow, he knew that for them he wouldn’t)

Byleth briefly wonders if he would have exchanged love letters with Dima, in that ideal future, and he immediately feels a certain warmth to his face and ears.

He doesn’t need to have Sothis in his mind to know the giggle she is probably making. 

Aside from the young prince, Byleth still has not seen any of his past students at all around the monastery. He knows very well the chances of meeting them while having to stay cooped up in his room and finish this whole diary of torment task for Sothis are basically nonexistent though, and he resumes his clumsy attempts at writing with a huge pout on his face.

There’s nothing he wants more than to get out of there and see them again, but the sooner he completes this ordeal, the sooner he’ll be able to explore.

His sudden increase in motivation does not, however, solve the problem to explain to his other self things he’s not even sure he can remember well in the first place.

Not to mention informing her of the fact that her only parent will die in a few months.

As expected, Byleth’s father hadn’t really been _his_ father. In this dimension, he’s simply Jeralt, leader of a small group of mercenaries, ex-captain of the Knights of Seiros and Byleth -Bel’s- father.

He was anticipating it, but it hurt no less when it happened. Years of memories, from the only person who still had a chance to remember earlier days spent at his side than ones that have yet to come, vanished in an instant.

Byleth had accounted for the losses of Dima and his other students, no matter how much he wished their bond to be intact. Back to this day, he was very well aware of the fact he hadn't even met them yet, and those strong and wonderful men and women he had come to know in a year of lessons and another of war would revert back to their younger, more naive - but still wonderful- selves. 

But no matter what happened to everything else, the thought that his father would have still been at his side and remembered him had been a solid certainty for Byleth. 

Until the moment he had laid his eyes on that girl, and their world froze in purple.

He still doesn’t know how she managed to convince him to follow their plans, but she had done it. When Jeralt had proudly presented them to the three house leaders and Alois as his daughter and son Byleth with a huge pat on their backs, the only shock on their audience's faces was from the fact that apparently, giving the same name to both your children is not a good idea, no matter how good that sounds.

Tragically, everyone -including Jeralt- accepted the nicknames Bel offered them with ease. But while she seemed more than content with hers, the same certainly couldn’t be said for him.

When Claude had winked at him, calling him _Ben_ in that mischievous tone of his, Byleth almost pulverized the Golden Deer leader with his look.

Then, Dimitri invited him to return to the kingdom together, and Byleth's brain stopped functioning.

He had completely forgotten about the part in which the Faerghus prince had been so bold as to invite a stranger home with him, and the ‘ _Whoa there’_ that escaped Claude’s lips combined with his teasing gaze, darting between him and the Blue Lions leader, had worked miracles in spreading his blush like wildfire up his cheeks.

Byleth is sure that if he still could turn back time and bring a portable mirror to that scene, he’d find his face to be the color of Sylvain’s vibrant mane in the exact, embarrassing moment Dimitri's words had reached his ears. 

Frustration creeping up on him for his latest failure of an entry – now curled up in a ball, along with the other ones adorning his desk and littering the floor, Byleth decides to only fill Bel up with the events for the current month. After all, it’s better to proceed with order and little, careful steps, or he fears overwhelming the girl with a too big load of information spanning a whole year all at once.

Also, based on their first, small interventions, he suspects things could already change drastically from the start, leading to entirely different events this time and making his entire and detailed recount of every single occurrence in his past life not only possibly confusing, but completely vexing and useless as well.

He still knows he will have to discuss with her the most important things, sooner or later, to prevent them from happening at _any_ moment, not just their established one -Jeralt’s death being the first, and then the war, even if Byleth has a hunch that Sothis must have already showed the girl some fragments, given her disposition to aid them in their cause so eagerly from the beginning.

But most of all, he needs to communicate with Sothis. It feels as if he’s playing a game of puzzle somehow, not knowing which things the girl is already informed on, which she isn’t, and which are better to have delayed and see whether they change based on different conditions being created.

He’s simply missing too many pieces to be efficient with this, he concludes, and one can’t complete a puzzle without having all of its pieces to put in the correct place.

So Byleth hastily scribbles the dates he remembers for the rest of the month on a blank, new page, and hurries outside.

It’s a splendid day for fishing, after all. 

* * *

Byleth receives the diary entry from a very disheveled Ben right before dinner.

“Not a word, Sothis” he says as she opens the door after his single, loud knock. The man is completely soaked, as is part of his hair, leaving a trail of droplets on the ground at his passage. In his hands are two empty buckets, and a fishing rod is strapped to his back with a makeshift rope belt.

Despite his forewarning, he doesn’t seem mad when she asks him “What happened?” out of her own volition and curiosity.

Maybe because she isn’t Sothis, Byleth thinks.

(Besides, the goddess is too busy rolling on the floor of the Holy Tomb in laughter to form a coherent greeting to suggest her)

Ben just huffs, but there’s a sort of resigned exhaustion in his eyes as he puts the buckets down and hands her a very wet piece of paper.

“Along with the goddess, my luck in fishing has also abandoned me,” he declares, shoulders sulking, before picking his equipment up again and leaving the room as swiftly as he had entered.

A bit puzzled, but certainly intrigued by whatever misadventure had befallen her new brother on his way to her quarters, Byleth locks the door and sits on her bed, conjuring a weak fire spell in her hands to dry up the note.

She had been informed by Sothis that she was to receive information regarding future events by Ben, but when she opens it, its contents leave her a bit dumbfounded.

_My diary_

_Sunday 20th - Great Tree Moon_

_Future events:_

_4/20 Today. We know what happened._

Byleth can feel the goddess rolling her eyes so hard at that line she wonders if she can see her brain like that.

She goes on reading anyway.

_4/27 First full day off. We get to pick our house. I’m picking Blue Lions. You are free to choose. Edelgard is horrible, though. Sothis can elaborate better on that._

Sothis huffs. If possible, her eyes sink even deeper into her skull.

_4/30 Battle between houses. It’s Ferdinand von Aegir’s birthday. He’ll keep repeating his name at every command on the battlefield, but you can’t turn him off. You can invite him for tea if you choose his house though. He likes it._

_Note: Do not speak with Sylvain (tall, red-haired guy from Blue Lions) or he'll risk joining your class._

_Do not make Sylvain join your class. I need to help him get married._

_Burn the note, please._

~~_Byleth_ ~~ _~~Ben~~_

The entry ends like that, and the signature is all canceled and almost illegible. Byleth likes its style. It’s functional, and practical, but it makes Sothis roll her eyes again, so maybe she doesn’t like it that much anymore, she decides.

_“Ugh, can he be any lazier than that? And here I thought I had seen it all with Hilda and Linhardt…”_ Sothis laments.

_Who are Hilda and Lindarhdt?_

_“Linhardt”_

_Yes, that’s what I have said. Lindhardth._

_“Well, no, it’s-“_ Sothis lets out a puff of air, and just chuckles without completing her correction.

“ _They’re students here,”_ she finally informs Byleth, still smiling in the back of her mind.

_“From the Golden Deer and Black Eagles, respectively. They’re both the emblems of laziness, really, even if they’re both very gifted individuals. But I need you to choose the Blue Lions when time will come, Bel. Even if he wants to lead his old class, again. Only the Goddess knows what he will do if he gets too emotional with them, and that would be me, what a pleasant coincidence.”_

The goddess draws a long sigh before going on.

_“Byleth is a mellow idiot, who’s better off with someone on neutral ground such as the Golden Deers for all this mess, even if I can’t deny the alluring possibility of having an insider in the Eagles’ nest. But I…no, that is not for you to hear. The Lions are his precious students, yet he lacks the power to protect them, now. And neither I know what will become of him should one of them die under his watch with no means to bring them back, this time.”_

Byleth thinks about it, but she really doesn’t have to. She already knows her answer way before her lips part to communicate it, and fire gathers at her fingertips to eliminate any kind of proof of the note’s existence.

_Yes, Sothis._

The goddess grins at her.

_“Good. Because we have somewhere to go while that himbo is busy drying himself up. Let’s get you a new sword, Bel.”_

A pause.

_Sothis?_

_“Yes? Go on, if there’s something you need to ask. If it's about the young Empress, I'll explain on our way, curse that man and his poor excuse of a report--”_

_\--What is a ‘himbo’?_

Sothis sighs again. It all feels too familiar not to.

* * *

Byleth skips dinner and goes to the bathhouse directly, still completely wet.

(It’s not like he is not going to soak himself again, anyway)

The added benefit of having his stomach empty besides avoiding indigestion, Byleth figures out as he walks through the doors of the public edifice and finds its entrance completely vacant; is that at this hour all the baths are avoided in favor of the dining hall.

Which means he has a lot of time to spend alone to contemplate the fool he has made out of himself in front of half faculty when a huge Fódlandy he had not been equipped for had dragged him into the muddy water after he stubbornly refused to let the big catch escape, falling into the fishing pond between shocked stares and amused laughs. 

Brushing the embarrassment and the sting his pride as prodigy fisherman has suffered away, he relishes the quietness of the place, knowing that at least he won't risk any unwanted stares while bathing. 

Byleth doesn’t have any issues in sharing public spaces with other men, as he was used growing up with his father and their mercenary company, but there is a nasty starburst scar on his chest right where his heart should be, one that Rhea left on him as an ever-present reminder of who had saved his life. Whom he _owed_ it to.

The very thought of it makes him sick, almost as much as remembering Dima’s eyes filling up with tears at the sight of that mark of burned flesh.

He’d rather not make any more people cry with it, if possible.

Content with the temperature of the water and the hot steam coming from its surface, Byleth undresses himself as fast as he can, hoping not to get spotted by the only other soul who apparently had his exact same idea of favoring a bath over dinner. 

Thankfully, the pool is big enough to grant Byleth the luxury of avoiding any kind of interaction with him, since the space is sufficient for both of them to comfortably stay on opposed sides and still have a lot of free space to swim as well, if they wanted--

“--Greetings, uh…. Professor? You’re new here, I don’t recall ever seeing your face! Do you teach here?”

The startle from hearing that familiar voice makes Byleth slip on the wet edge, sending him flying face down into the water.

When he reemerges from what is his second, wet fall into a pool of some kind for the day, the Gatekeeper’s hands are slapping on his back lightly to make him cough up any liquid he might have ingested into his lungs.

"Breathe,” he keeps repeating to him, “and why did you jump inside like that! You got me so scared for a moment there, you're not some kind of experienced diver, are you?" 

“I’m not” Byleth confirms between coughs, earning a worried look from the man.

“I’m simply an unfortunate guy today, it seems.”

Somehow, this makes his rescuer relax a bit, but Byleth knows he would still feel bad in telling him he was in fact the reason for his sudden scare and subsequent fall, so he says nothing. 

Byleth remembers the gatekeeper from his previous life, the ever polite and awfully gentle presence at the monastery gates, often calling out for him. Yet, he has to admit that were it not for his unmistakable gleeful tone, he would have never recognized him without the cover of his full armor.

The man is younger than what Byleth imagined, about his same age, probably, with strands of white, short hair curling on his forehead under all the steam and where his helmet used to hide his cloud-looking locks. There’s a similar softness to both their features, he realizes, even if the liquid, amber eyes currently staring at him with genuine care are gentler than his piercing indigo ones. 

With a pang of guilt, Byleth recalls not even ever bothering to ask for his name, despite the man always waiting for him and his students to come back from their missions in earlier days, his troops and armies from war in later ones; simply to wish him a good day and report everything that had happened in his absence from the monastery. 

Which usually had been a simple ‘ _nothing to report, Professor_!’, but it still was something Byleth had used to look forward to every time.

A splotch of color and life in an otherwise greyscale, depressing reality.

So, it comes only naturally for Byleth to now extend his hand to the man with a warm smile that says all the words he can't speak, all the little thanks he never gave him. 

"I’m Byleth. Not a professor yet, but I’m starting next week. Thank you for your assistance, truly, ” he begins, voice drifting towards a questioning tone. "…?”

“Oh, I-“

At his silent inquiry, the gatekeeper’s face falls.

“I’m sorry, I don’t really remember my name. Or, I remember one, but it doesn’t feel right, in some way. Like I’m missing something. Can you believe that?" he chuckles nervously, sinking a bit deeper into the steamy water. "It all doesn’t make much sense to me either, after all. Heh.”

Byleth nods. He can _perfectly_ believe that, considering that particular moment in his existence where he had believed _Dimitri’_ s name to be _his own_ during his crazed adventure in Fhirdiad.

He tries to manage a small, understanding smile, and the other man seems to appreciate it, because he smiles in return. 

“What happened….? Byleth trails off, not finishing his question. He knows he doesn’t need to, not when the gatekeeper’s reply comes almost immediately after that.

“Some knights found me months ago right outside the monastery walls, fast asleep in a flower field. But I can’t recall how I ever ended up there, nor what I was doing before. Maybe, I had always existed in that asleep state, simply doing nothing for all my life, hahaha. ”

He tips his head back and laughs, but there’s something sad in the corner of his lips that Byleth can’t really make out.

“There are better places to take a nap than on the ground,” he surprises himself with saying, and the other man’s eyes flare again with that peculiar spark. 

This time, Byleth recognizes it.

Nostalgia.

His white-haired bathing companion smiles softly at his line. 

“Heh. Somehow, it feels as I’ve heard this before, you know?”

They both fall silent, and for a moment, the only sound in the vast, warm white room is the gentle rippling of water on the pool's surface, until the gatekeeper speaks again.

“I'm still not sure about my name, but you might call me with the one I remember, for now. After all, Grima is better than nothing, don’t you think?”


	7. karma (mutual reflections)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> F!Byleth: 2
> 
> Men stupid enough to cross paths with her sword in the monastery at night: 0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is taken from the song karma by Bump of Chicken! I really love this song ^^
> 
> As always, thanks for the kind comments and kudos to anyone leaving them, and I hope you continue to enjoy this story!
> 
> Notes on Sothis and F!Byleth's (Bel) characterization at the end, but before, a little clarification on Sothis' powers:
> 
> Sothis retains the knowledge of all the other timelines she's lived in the alternate dimensions, thus has access on information pertaining ALL routes of the game. There are laws she must abide to, however, so that prevents her from sharing too much (also, she feels like it's her "burden" to carry, and hers alone)  
> She doesn't know everything that goes on in the world if she hasn't experienced it directly in the different routes, nor knows every living soul that inhabits it, but her weakened divine powers grant her some "premonitions" on different things (for example she can guess if a person is lying or hiding things even if it's her first meeting with them) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter ^^

_The mirror reflects our every mutual karma. So for the other's sake, we can substitute each other._

* * *

Sothis watches with careful eyes as Byleth crosses the monastery gardens with swift steps, following the mental map of the place she has outlined for her at every turn the girl has to take to reach her destination.

Pale rays of light faintly illuminate her, revealing a stern expression whenever her figure deftly slips outside the enshrouding shadows provided by the marble archways and into the moonlit, open gardens.

From the throne inside her mind, Sothis thinks that if Mercedes saw her now, she would gape at the sight, taking Byleth for one of those ethereal and vengeful ghosts she liked so much reading about in her scary stories, while Ashe and Annette would probably transfer school the next morning, believing the monastery to be infested.

Suppressing a small chuckle at the thought -and the missed opportunity for a good prank she absolutely needs to convince Ben to enact on the most chickenish members of the Blue Lions; she keeps leading Bel to the secluded gazeboes area outside the dining hall, knowing full well that no student will likely be a witness of the events that are soon to unfold.

It’s already past curfew for the residents of Garrech Mach, and thus the chances of being bothered by anyone during their small mission for the night are incredibly slim. As Byleth walks past the few, heavy-lidded guards patrolling the sacred grounds, unnoticed under the cover of darkness, Sothis knows the girl barely needs to muffle the clanking of her heeled boots on the stone floor, for when the lookouts register the sound and lazily turn to gaze in her direction; she’s already long gone, mistaken for a vivid mirage in one of their half-lucid dreams.

In witnessing their reaction - or better, lack of; the goddess can’t help but release a loud, exasperated grunt.

(It’s not like anyone else but Byleth can hear her, anyway.)

 _“Now I finally understand how so many things happened under our noses before! Well, mine and Ben’s actually, but still- **Fuming imbeciles**!” _she yells,“ _Seriously, is the gatekeeper the only one even working in this entire complex?!”_

As crazy as it sounds -and that’s precisely what has gotten her so riled up- the only person to acknowledge Byleth’s presence when she had stepped outside her personal quarters had been the young man waving at her from the bathhouse terrace, who greeted her in a tone Sothis would never forget for the world.

To tell the truth, she’s still surprised by how fast Byleth followed her suggestion for a quick escape, looking sheepishly at the boy behind her long lashes and muttering a lazy “Trouble sleeping,” that had apparently been convincing enough for him to smile softly at her and bidding her a good stroll, not knowing how out of character for her that interaction was.

But when Bel doesn’t reply to her small outburst, nodding silently instead, Sothis thinks that in all honesty, she _shouldn’t_ be _that_ surprised.

This version of Byleth is everything the other is slowly forgetting he’s ever been: a mercenary, a soldier, a fighter; eager to follow orders without so much as questioning them. Even when she shared her plan for the night, the girl had simply listened, looked at her with blank eyes, and complied.

Her only inquiries had been basic ones, such as the identity and nature of their target, what was this and what was that or circumstantial information that served as background. Even when she had asked the reason for this operation it had only been to _understand._

Never to judge. Never to defy.

Byleth -Ben- would have surely refused.

Protesting something along the lines of ‘ _Rhea finding out_ ’ and ‘ _two Swords of the Creator’_ , he would have never descended the narrow, forgotten steps that Bel is walking upon after Sothis activated the floating orb in the middle of the gazebo, opening up the secret passage to the Holy Mausoleum for them.

In all honesty, Sothis has to admit that the idiotic himbo would have had a valid point in sabotaging their operation. She’s not so sure herself how they’ll justify the second sword to Rhea, but she knows that the girl absolutely needs it for what they’re about to do, and Byleth would have never departed from his sword so easily without a reason to lend the relic to his pretend sister -even if he can’t use it anymore without the crest of Flames.

A reason that’s is very real and valid and urgent, but one she couldn’t have possibly disclosed to him, since the whole point of having Bel act in his stead is to spare him from being involved in this.

If there is one thing that Sothis is certain of, after all, is the fact that Byleth would have insisted to be the one to personally severe Solon’s head from his shoulders, with the risk of losing him forever in dark abysses of revenge that were sure to set him out on a savage spree after that first kill, crushing the humanity inside him when he’s just begun to experience it fully.

Hence, the plan.

Quick, simple, efficient.

An in-and-out from the Mausoleum, a ‘take the sword, find that fraud of a librarian and question him a bit before dumping his lifeless body somewhere Church officials won’t find before a decade or so’.

Flawless, even.

If not for Byleth’s very presence.

Sothis still feels bad in having purposefully ruined his day out fishing, but she needed him to be thoroughly exhausted and busy somewhere far away from the second floor and the library -possibly the bathhouse, or his quarters- to secure his absence for the night.

Maybe sending after him that giant, feral Fòdlandy had been a bit too much, but she’ll make up with a generous catch the next time he sets out for the pond, she guesses.

Anything, anything for him.

Sothis would have done anything to prevent Ben from falling into those unfathomable depths, depths she had not only seen his lover struggle to get free from for too much time, but also caught glimpses of in his indigo eyes; firstly every time he had tried to forget himself into his desperate, hungry need to punish whoever was responsible for the suffering of his loved ones as violently and cruelly as possible, and then in his blind fury when he had lashed out at Hubert at the gates of Enbarr, thrashing the dark mage’s body repeatedly long after his demise.

Byleth.

He had always been the most emotional out of all her children, despite bearing the same stoic, seemingly imperturbable façade as the others.

Byleth.

Prone to huge bursts of emotions underneath his calm surface, an apparent still sea with an ever-present storm brewing on the inside.

The biggest idiot she’s ever met, who always puts everybody else’s happiness before his own, who in the past had used the Divine Pulses just to get the perfect gifts and blends of tea for his students without disappointing them even once.

An incredibly skilled warrior, a socially awkward mess, the king of all himbos.

Byleth…. Ben.

Pure and stubborn. Quick to tears. Scared to hold her too tight into an embrace for fear of hurting the goddess herself.

Maybe that’s why he is her favorite, Sothis thinks.

And everything she desires is for him to be happy, in a world where he isn’t on his own anymore.

In a world where he can rely on someone else to take care of things he shouldn’t, not ever again.

She doesn’t want to lose him.

But her…

Obedient, unquestioning Bel. Bel whose heart still doesn’t beat.

Sothis knows she’ll reap the benefits of this altered reality too, in time. A father who will stay by her side, for example.

So, for both his sake and hers as well, this girl can substitute him for a little bit longer.

Just a little bit longer, until Sothis can secure a happy future for her dearest child.

That’s the role of a goddess and her chosen vessel, after all.

When the girl takes the Sword of the Creator out of the sarcophagus and into her hands, Sothis’ smile flashes like a bright, falling star into the midnight sky.

* * *

Byleth’s first peaceful moment of the day -excluding his brief visit at the sauna, which got abruptly cut off by an urgent summoning to the Archbishop’s audience chamber- gets interrupted as well, this time by a loud knocking at his door.

Putting his book down with a sigh, he sits up from his bed and reaches for the handle, expecting to find Rhea or Seteth standing outside, eager to ask him the questions that, at this point, he imagines they must be racking their brains to find the answers to -like how is possible for Jeralt to have two children, or why he was the only one member of their enlarged family to attend the sudden meeting they convened.

(To this second one, he himself doesn’t have one. But he’s going to have a talk with Sothis and Bel about dodging responsibilities, he decides)

Thankfully, before even setting foot into the monastery he had been wise enough to hide the Sword of the Creator away from the Church's prying eyes by wrapping it up in his coat, or he doesn’t want to imagine what the Archbishop’s reaction would have been in witnessing a second, identical copy of the sacred relic in his possession without a decent explanation.

An explanation Byleth doesn't have, save from incoherent blabbing that would have probably blown his cover up in an instant. He knows he would have never been able to explain such a _mysterious_ circumstance, after all, so he's glad to have the Sword safely tucked away under layers of clothing in the wooden box containing all of his wardrobe.

Even if Bel can still access the Divine Pulse to rectify their missteps, he doesn’t want to test his luck by going around the monastery with something that might as well be a huge sign that reads “HELLO RHEA, I’M FROM AN ALTERNATE DIMENSION” strapped to his side.

Besides, Byleth has a feeling that no one will look for a mighty sword amidst his undergarments.

(At least, that's what he hopes.)

Readying himself for a second round at the inquisition table after the first one ended in a strange mixture of Rhea complimenting him on his looks insistently and renewing the invitation to teach at the Academy she had made to both him and Bel upon their arrival, all the while having to sustain Seteth’s glares laced with distrust and homicidal intent; Byleth opens the door.

On its other side there’s Jeralt, two pints of ale in hand.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says, comfortably setting foot inside and flopping down onto the edge of his bed, “what do you say to a beer with your old man? I believe we have much to talk about.”

* * *

Meeting Solon ends up being way easier than what Byleth had expected.

She and Sothis find the man crouched over some books in a dusty corner of the library, still posing as the kind and gentle elder Tomas had probably been before being killed and having his identity stolen by this impostor.

At the sound of footsteps approaching his table, the old librarian lifts his gaze up from his readings and smiles at the intruder.

“Oh! You must be the new Professor… I heard the news about your arrival. Now come, come, have a seat. I am Tomas, the librarian. What brings you here, in the middle of the night?” he asks tenderly, unaware of the Goddess’s omniscient presence in the room.

Witnessing his nauseating gentle act, Byleth feels the relic twitch against her hip as if it was alive, almost begging her to kill the man in front of her eyes.

Her fingers clasp around the bone of its hilt.

In her line of work, she has never accepted any job that required killing kids or the elderly, but she’s glad to make an exception in this case. When Sothis first told her that this man would be responsible for the destruction of Remire village and the deaths of almost all of its inhabitants, leaving only orphaned children behind, Byleth had already known what had to be done.

Even before knowing about the experiments, or how those children had been forced to watch their parents descend into complete madness and kill each other before their eyes.

She grits her teeth.

_Unforgivable._

Byleth is ready to strike, knuckles already turning white for the tight grip on her sword; but Sothis places her hand atop hers in a silent gesture, and whether it’s to prevent her from unsheathing the weapon or simply comfort her; Byleth’s not sure, but it works either way.

There are still many things she doesn’t understand, yet her trust lays within the one who has always been at her side. Slowly, she releases the grip on the blade and repeats the words Sothis is whispering into her mind.

“I was looking for you--” she begins, and the man gives her a surprised, questioning look.

“….Solon.”

At the mention of his real name, his façade falls.

“ _How_ \- ? he hisses, face contorting into an unrecognizable mask,“-Who are **_you_**?”

Byleth stares blankly at him, a surge of quiet, composed rage running through her body.

Before she can reply with her own, however, the goddess whispers unknown words into her ears, prompting her to repeat them.

“ _Please say it_ ”, Sothis begs frantically, “ _Please, Bel.”_

Byleth has absolutely no idea what the vast majority of those lines mean, nor sees how comparing this man to a prostitute will aid them in their search for answers; but Sothis’ tone is filled with an urgency that rarely comes from her, so she complies with her request.

Piercing Solon with her coldest stare, she pronounces the words that the goddess suggested to her.

“I’m divine Karma, _bitch_. And I’m the one asking all the questions tonight.”

Sothis’ booming laughter explodes in the room, resonating across the walls in a thunderous fashion, even if it’s only for the both of them to hear. For a moment, Byleth rejoices in the sound, thinking that whatever the goddess has just made her say, was worth it if it can make her so happy.

Then the man chokes and gasps, and she is suddenly reminded of his presence, quickly pointing the tip of her blade at his neck.

“Your accomplices’ names, now,” she demands flatly.

His eyes narrow at the sight of the Sword of the Creator, but even if he recognizes the relic, he doesn’t give it away.

“Never, Fell Star,” he hisses under his breath, and Byleth senses the dark magic being conjured at his fingertips.

Before he can complete his enchantment, a quick slice of her weapon severs his hand from the wrist, and the limb falls onto the wooden floor with a wet _thud_.

Black blood spurts out from the ragged stump where her blade had torn bone and flesh apart, and the man cries in pain, raucous and inhuman.

Sothis frowns. Byleth doesn’t need to see her reaction to know that this is bad for their plan. Loud noises mean attention, and attention means security chasing after you--

_“Quick!_ " the goddess urges her, following her same train of thought, “W _e don’t have much time, extract as much information from him as possible before the guards arrive and you are forced to use a Divine Pulse! And next time, please try to incapacitate him first, Bel.”_

She wants to argue that she did indeed try and succeed in incapacitating him, but Byleth knows that Sothis is always right, so she just tightens her lips and focuses on the dark bishop crawling at her feet instead.

Solon is kneeling on the floor, dipping the edges of his robe into the inky pool underneath him as he pathetically tries to reattach his missing limb with a quick healing spell.

Another precise slash, and his remaining hand goes to join the other one on the bloodied planks. Sothis whistles absentmindedly at her display of power.

The man screams again, agony revealing his hideous true features underneath that caring librarian mask.

Byleth kicks his hand and watches it rolling on the floor, away from his grasp.

(Not that he has anything left to reach for it with, she thinks)

“Answer me,” she snaps. “Why Remire? Who else has infiltrated this place? Where is your _kin_ ’s hideout? How do you control those javelins of light?”

But no matter what -or how many- questions she doesn’t understand the meaning of Sothis whispers for her to repeat, the man never gives in, not even when he’s reduced to a bloody, unrecognizable pulp.

When she hears heavy clanks of steel on marble approaching from the corridor outside, Byleth knows it’s time to go. Before the knights can turn around the corner and set foot into the gory mess the library has become, glass shatters around her, marking their first failure.

Luckily, they still have two other chances.

She knows that the Divine Pulse’s usage depends on the strength of one’s bond with the goddess, and Byleth wonders how many more than her Ben had.

Sothis doesn’t reply to her silent question, and for some reason, when Byleth asks her, she refuses to help with the countdown.

“Two left,” Byleth says, alone.

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

At their second attempt, the guards took much longer to arrive, because Byleth has made sure Solon can’t scream anymore. Unfortunately, without a tongue, he can’t talk either, so she has to rewind time again.

When she announces “One more” out loud, the goddess is visibly displeased, but says nothing.

(Byleth hopes she has not disappointed her)

Both she and Sothis understand the dark bishop isn’t going to reveal any kind of information, ever, on their third and last try. Knowing she needs to end this fast, Byleth strikes down the man even before he can lift his gaze off the book he’s reading and take a look at his executioner’s face.

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

Cleaning up the mess and disposing of the body afterwards are two things they clearly hadn’t considered, but at least this time the walls are not splattered with that disgusting black slime as before, and the quietness of their operation is sure to grant them enough privacy for a while.

As Byleth chops up the body, a weak fire spell dancing in her hands to make the blood evaporate and leave no traces behind, she realizes how utterly wrong they had been.

Having finished wrapping all the pieces inside her coat to transport Solon’s remains somewhere more secluded, she turns to face the door again, corpse heaved on her back.

There, completely still, stands a slender and feminine figure, clad in one of the Officer’s Academy uniforms.

A student.

They can’t risk this girl witnessing the massacre she has just done.

_Sothis_ , Byleth calls, but the goddess dismisses her silent plea for a Divine Pulse.

_“No, Bel, wait,”_ she instructs, and Sothis’ voice sounds strangely intrigued, albeit retaining its usual firmness.

“ _I’ve never seen this one before, not even with Ben. There’s something strange about him, and the reason he conceals his name… let me ask this boy some things, first.”_

Amidst the flow of words blossoming from the goddess’ lips, the only ones that Byleth registers are those two.

_Boy. Him._

_…. **Him**?_

Looking closer, Byleth gapes at the intruder. If not for the masculine cut of his uniform, she would have kept mistaking him for a girl, even if there’s something that strikes her as odd in this particular getup he’s wearing. She wonders if all the male students have high-heeled, white boots as well, or a short, white cape draped over one shoulder. She’s not sure.

(It could be, though. It’s only her first day at the monastery, after all)

When she takes a few steps towards him, the young man doesn’t run away nor scream. He keeps standing there, looking back at her with wide, lilac eyes, filled with something more akin to surprise than the terror or fear Byleth was expecting to see.

Then, in an instant, that small flicker in his irises is gone, replaced with a darker glint.

There’s a noticeable shift in his stance, and suddenly he looks much older than he appeared before. More confident, in the way his eyes examine her figure, how they linger on specific parts of her body for a little more than the rest. 

It makes Byleth oddly uncomfortable.

“Well, well, well--” the young man finally breaks the silence, and there's something oddly fascinating in the way he masterfully dances around every word, weighing each pause with such perfect composure no one should have when facing someone whose hands are still bloodstained with the chopped up body splayed at their feet. 

“--Seems like I’ve stepped into something I shouldn’t have. What’s your price, _miss_? Name it, and it shall be all _yours_.”

He purrs out the last word, drawling out the syllabes in a saccharine tone that doesn't quite match his sharp features, and keeps looking at her from underneath long and violet lashes of the same hue as his shoulder-length, feathered bob.

Byleth doesn't miss the way his words are laced with malice, or how the boy uses a silvery tongue that would be a better fit on one of the many thieves or brigands she’s used to dealing with on her job rather than some fancy, noble student of a private academy. 

There's a weird contrast between his attitude and his appearance, and for how girlish he looks, Byleth can't help but notice that his voice is surprisingly deep. 

_“Charmed already?_ ” Sothis teases, but her playful expression doesn't hide the worry in her tone. “ _Be careful, Byleth, he’s not who—"_

The stranger takes a step forward, shutting off the goddess’ thoughts swirling inside her mind. He leans on the doorframe sensually, without ever breaking eye contact with her.

“Everything you want,” he offers, and his light amethyst pools seem to hold unspeakable promises when he stares into hers. “Everything _\- me_ included,” he adds in a whisper when she doesn’t reply, a sultry smile forming on his glossed lips. “Right here. Right _now_.”

The indecent proposal takes Byleth by surprise, startling her more than she’s willing to admit, and she unconsciously backs away from the young man, even if her gaze stays fixed on him.

But that small slip, that little hesitation in her ever steady stance is all the opening he was waiting for. 

The young man lunges forward, viciously aiming for her eyes with a small, sharp knife she hasn’t even noticed him retrieve from his pockets.

He’s fast, but so is Byleth, and she dodges the blade at the last second, a single strand of dark teal hair falling where the weapon has just traced its swing the closest to her face.

She almost curses herself for having chosen to secure the Sword of the Creator at her back instead than at her side, leaving her unarmed in the heat of battle.

Well, _almost_ unarmed.

One of the first things her father ever taught her had been how everything could become a weapon when one was fighting for survival. How parts of your body could strike harder than steel, on the right occasion.

In the right _places._

So she does exactly what she’s learnt, what she’s been practicing for years. Byleth lowers herself to the ground, using the momentum of the fall to propel her leg forward and deliver a well-placed kick to his ankles.

Her opponent loses his balance, but does not relent. He’s quick to stabilize himself, unsheathing another blade -this time, a sword- from underneath his long jacket, with which he starts alternating his knife attacks in rapid succession.

As she dodges his hits, sometimes using the library’s furniture -chairs, candle holders, even old, heavy tomes- to parry the quickest ones, Byleth can’t help but notice how his fighting style is the exact opposite of his pretty and poised appearance.

Whenever he strikes, the thrust of his twin blades is rough, violent and unrestrained against her. Savage, almost.

This young man fights like a wild, wounded animal, desperate and hungry to survive; and yet every move of his still falls into a graceful and deadly dance, somehow.

But he’s still a touch prim and proper, with that innate elegance of his, while Byleth has been raised on the mercenary’s path. Tactics, and cheap tricks, included.

When he lunges at her again, Sothis yelps lightly, anticipating an hit; but Byleth is swift to sidestep him, closing the distance between her and the table Solon was sitting to read his book in, where the candles are still lit.

_Don’t worry, Sothis, I’m not going to lose. You’ll get to ask all the questions you want_ ; she reassures the goddess as she grabs one of the metallic candle holders from the table and throws the hot wax into the young man’s face.

The scream he releases when it lands on his skin is everything but graceful.

Throwing rows after rows of vulgar insults at her, he frantically presses his hands to his face, trying to summon a weak heal where the wax is already leaving burn marks. But Byleth knows he’s being too loud, and that she must silence him, lest another set of guards comes before they get the chance to question another potential source of vital information.

Besides, she has promised Sothis her questions.

Unfortunately for him, Byleth decides that the best way to shut his mouth is tugging at the carpet beneath his feet, making the young man fall heavily on his back.

The impact of his body colliding against the hard, wooden planks is strong enough to knock the breath out of him, and she seizes the chance to climb atop his chest, pinning him to the ground with both arms and legs.

“Yield,” she commands, and in all response, he spits on her face.

Saliva slowly dripping down her cheek, Byleth is quick to realize what he’s trying to make her do, being used to this kind of street-smart, dirty moves. She has to acknowledge this lavender-haired boy’s quick thinking, at least, even if she refuses to play his little games and keeps both her hands firmly pressed on his wrists instead.

Something like panic flickers in his eyes for a moment, before that dark glint resurfaces again and he talks, spitting out venom-coated words from his mouth.

“Ow, your pretty face is dirty, Aren’t you going to clean yourself up?” he goads, but she simply stares down at him, impassive.

“You can spit on me all you want, I won’t let you go,” she deadpans, and at her words, he bursts out into a small fit of nervous laughter that probably sounds like the most genuine thing she’s heard from the man since he appeared on that doorframe. She almost feels sympathy for him, thinking he’s been captured by a homicidal maniac that is going to chop us his body in a dark library.

Then, he does the big mistake of talking again.

“W-o-w, that was kinky, you know—”

When her grip tightens on him, she can’t blame him for squeaking faintly. She’s sure her knee is pricking his hipbone pretty badly, after all.

Behind her, Sothis starts clapping excitedly.

_“Oh Bel, that was so good_!” she congratulates her, and Byleth smiles at the goddess.

_I told you I would win, Sothis._

_“Oh, but I never had a doubt! I was simply engrossed in the show,”_ the other concurs.

Byleth nods. _As promised, he’s all yours, now,_ she says.

* * *

The defiant young man doesn’t prove to be as uncooperative in this as he had been in their fight.

Byleth thinks he must be simply exhausted from the long struggle, or maybe fear is finally getting to him. Either way, he’s stopped squirming beneath her, settling for answering a few questions instead, once he understood he might get out of this alive.

So far, he has denied his association to an organization that Sothis has called ‘Those Who Slither in The Dark, along with any kind of affiliation to Solon, who apparently is a member of theirs; and explained his presence near the library as a midnight stroll to retrieve some ink for a certain journal of his.

He also seems to have no idea about Remire, or other mysterious words the goddess has made her pronounce in her stead: _Agarthans, Shambhala, Nabateans_... none of which makes sense to him -nor her.

After a bit more fruitless questioning, the goddess seems satisfied with his responses, and makes Byleth drop the subject.

When they change it, his peculiar fighting style also gets an explanation, even if Sothis tells her that she knows they aren’t getting the full truth from his lips on this. She learns that the boy is not a student, or at least not a _regular_ one, who works as a part-time mercenary and assassin and who resides somewhere in the monastery grounds he’s refusing to disclose the exact location of.

_“Abyss, probably,"_ tells her Sothis in his place, promising to explain to her later what the place is if she’s still interested in knowing more.

Somehow, strangely, Byleth is.

There’s a mysterious aura surrounding this young man, something that’s equally dark, alluring, and feels oddly familiar.

Byleth knows that she’s usually the one refusing to ask questions, uninterested to know more, but this time, she wants to.

Maybe that’s why the words leave her mouth before she can even register them.

“What’s your name?” she inquires, tone still cold and flat, and yet each syllable burns fiercely in her throat.

The purple-haired boy smirks at her display of interest, and Byleth immediately regrets ever asking.

“Yuri. Yuri Leclerc,” he intones, voice sweet as caramel. “And yours?”

Before she can reply -or not- Sothis rolls her eyes in frustration. _“Liar_ ”, she hisses behind her teeth, "That's not his real name," and that’s exactly what Byleth repeats.

“Liar,” she tells him, "that's not your real name," and for the first time, the young man underneath her completely freezes in shock and lets out a half-choked moan.

She’s so taken aback by his reaction that her grip around his wrists softens, enough for one of his hands to free itself from her grasp and reach out for his knife, planting it deep into her thigh as soon as he regains control of his arm.

Byleth shrieks in pain, filling the air along with the sound of armored footsteps approaching the library. 

Then, she feels the familiar sensation of the Divine Pulse enveloping her, her last one for the day.

_Sothis?--_

The goddess's reply is curt. _“There’s nothing more we need from him,_ ” she states, and glass shatters again.

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

This last time, they do everything as before. Byleth heads to the library, finds Solon, and kills him immediately.

This last time, however, she doesn’t bother cleaning up, leaving the wrinkled corpse in the middle of the library for the knights to find.

This last time, as a result, she escapes safely, and avoids crossing paths with any living being on the way back to the dormitories.

This time, as a consequence, Byleth never fights Yuri, doesn’t even meet him. Except for some reason, when she's tucked inside her bed and ready to sleep, she can still feel his lavender, magnetic gaze following her, all the way inside her dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading until here! As anticipated, my thoughts on F!Byleth and Sothis' characterization:
> 
> In this chapter, sadly, a lot of things I've hinted at before are actually addressed (Sothis dismissing female Byleth, forgetting about her presence but then using her own life to basically resurrect M!Byleth (Ben) after he runs out of pulses, going to insane lengths for him such as throwing them both into a spatial fracture to do so... ) and we see how Sothis' reasoning works a little bit better.  
> She's not cruel, or uncaring, but she has still decided to use Female Byleth for the sake of her male counterpart (specifically our M!Byleth Ben) because as she's said to him, they're all her "children", but he's her favorite one, and she has already established that this universe is Ben's second chance rather than Bel's actual life. 
> 
> This is not to say she doesn't care about Bel: she does, but she also sees this Byleth as cold and unfeeling, as opposed to Ben. As you can see in this chapter, Bel is certainly emotionally distant, but is not unfeeling as Sothis is making her out to be in her mind, only to justify that she's in fact doing something she knows it's not fair to one of her children, and refusing to acknowledge she has emotions as a result. Plus, she's surely using Bel as a sort of slaughtering pawn, a living sword for her to move around, but what she has said it's also true: Bel can endure killing these people much better than Ben can, because currently she's not linked by any emotions or traumatic memories to them, unlike Ben, and the future they will be altering for the sake of her new brother is one that will also benefit her, eventually.
> 
> The whole point of my fiction, in the end, will be to show that a physical heart is not what makes the difference between human or not, and we'll experience this through the stories of M!Byleth Ben, who finally has a human one, and F!Byleth Bel, who doesn't.
> 
> I hope you will continue to enjoy these character's interactions!


	8. erased (faded memories)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter was a dish, the ingredients would be:
> 
> -M!Byleth stealing the scene with all POVs dedicated to him;  
> -some dramatic father and son bonding  
> -Byleth playing matchmaker at the cost of pretending to soil his pants  
> -cutest male professor at the academy getting hit on by his students: Fòdlan's notes affixed at the door edition TM  
> -said cutest male professor getting hopelessly drunk and being saved by a dimensional travel soft boi  
> -house choice :0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the song Re:Re by Asian Kung Fu Generation!
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter and please let me know if you do!! Receiving comments really makes my day and I'd love to hear your ideas or suggestions on this, or even some wild speculations you might have ^^  
> Thank you for supporting me <3

_I could wait forever, but then I won't learn that memories fade no matter how much it hurts._

* * *

Telling his _not-really-his_ father that he’s going to wind up dead in a few months ends up being way harder than what Byleth had expected.

As he and Jeralt sit on opposite sides of his bed, pints of ale in hand that have already been half-emptied amidst amicable laughter and his share of stories belonging to a past that the man doesn’t remember spending at his side; somehow, incredibly, Byleth _manages._

It’s not easy -it can _never_ be easy, not when he feels tears pooling at the corner of his eyes at the memory of his father’s unmoving body bleeding out in his arms; or when a lump forms in his throat and he has to swallow it in order to keep talking, trying to chase the image away; but Byleth still does it, and he thinks the feat is in no small part thanks to the golden alcohol he’s just ingested.

Surprisingly, or maybe not, because the man’s the living embodiment of stoicism, Jeralt stays still as Byleth tells him of the goddess in his head, of the trigger that granted him his time-travelling powers, of the peaceful days spent together at the monastery while so many monsters disguised as friendly faces roamed the halls, undisturbed in broad daylight.

He speaks of tragedy and loss, of the destruction in Remire and all the orphaned children from the village who asked him why he couldn’t have arrived earlier, why he didn’t save their parents; and the knight simply listens, only slightly furrowing his brows at the notion of his otherworldy abilities.

Then, something hot and salty starts streaming down Byleth’s cheeks, and his voice cracks more than once when he gets to the day in which Kronya slid a dagger into his father’s ribs and kept killing him pulse after pulse under the cold, unrelenting rain, until Byleth ran out of tries and the goddess screamed inside his mind before his world faded to black.

Byleth sees how Jeralt’s grip around his tankard tightens in hearing those words, how his lips tremble and his stern composure falls apart just a little. But the man still doesn’t speak, and Byleth knows he’s waiting for him to finish before saying -or doing- anything, so he valiantly fights the urge to throw himself into the arms of this stranger who looks and behaves exactly like his father except he _isn’t_ and tries his best to go on.

After all, he’s not trusting his voice to come out again if he stops even once.

Shoulders shaking, Byleth informs him of Edelgard’s plot to conquer all of Fòdlan, of Rhea’s transformation into a giant dragon, her true nature as Saint Seiros and all the unsuccessful attempts to turn him into the mother she missed so dearly. At the mention of the Archbishop Jeralt twitches in his seat, his face an almost unreadable mask that soon gets hidden behind the tall rim of his glass.

Byleth decides to follow the gesture with a sip of his own, talking about his five-year-long slumber and his awakening into an unrecognizable, war-torn world. He tells his interlocutor of the ghost of a prince infesting the monastery, of a small but formidable band of rebels that still fought for their freedom and a better future against all odds, always by his side.

The tears he shed before slowly starts drying on his face as he recalls the days spent reorganizing the army, chronicling their campaign versus the Empire step by step, battle after battle. He rejoices in the memory of all the victories that had filled his Lion’s hearts with hope and sighs as he describes the losses he couldn’t prevent no matter how many times he jumped back.

Jeralt sits through every memory, listening quietly, and somehow to Byleth it feels like he’s gone back in time again, to the days in which he and his father used to sit around a campfire and share the fishes they had caught, along with the stories surrounding the biggest or rarest ones.

By the time he reaches the recount of his last mission, the long dark hours of the night have already started to make way for the first bright aurora rays, filtering through the curtains of his room and showing the tiredness in his eyes.

Byleth is exhausted, but If there’s one thing he’s glad for in this entire night, he thinks, searching for any sign of disbelief in the other man’s face and finding none; it’s the fact that even if he probably sounds like one of those drunkards his father used to play arm wrestling with and beat all the time in foul-smelling taverns along the road, Jeralt’s attention is still entirely focused on him, so maybe he’s not going to get dismissed as a rambling fool lost in alcohol-induced psychosis.

(Not as soon as he thought he would be, at least.)

As his final tale begins, Byleth tells him of the awful assault he led on Enbarr, how he depleted all his pulses after every mistake he made and each life he lost, and he knows he’s doing something incredibly reckless and very dangerous in revealing the secrets of a future he’s no longer part of to a man who’s never actually been, but he can’t turn back anymore.

He knows, he knows that he’s violating whatever bond of trust there is between him and Sothis, that she will be righteously mad about this, that he should have thought the matter over a bit more; he knows all these things and yet he still decides to recall how he threw himself in front of that dagger and lost his life, only to be revived at the expense of the goddess’s one and waking up in a world where his place had already been taken by someone else.

Byleth really wants to believe that whatever led him to loosen his tongue so much could be blamed on the alcohol and his urgent need for allies in this last try at fixing whatever is wrong with the Universe, but they’re only excuses, and that’s another thing he knows far too well for his own sake.

Because the truth behind his rash decision and subsequent act of trust is far more complicated, and at the same time, way simpler than this: when Byleth saw the man standing at his door, pints of ale in hand and a warm smile on his face; he didn’t see the captain of the knights, nor the famous Blade breaker, nor a man whose child is definitely not him -not anymore.

He simply saw the father he had known for all his life, entering his room uninvited and plopping down on his bed like he owned the place, delivering him his share of beer and a strong pat on his back, just like he always did after each successful job.

The father he’s been missing for more than a year, who - once gone, left a hole inside his heart way before it started beating, whose death made Byleth regret all the words he had wanted to but never said to him.

The same father who’s now encircling him in an embrace that feels too much like home, as the sobs he tried to suppress until now finally come out in an unflattering weeping that gets released on the other man’s shoulders, dampening his orange tunic.

Byleth cries, and cries, and while his face is buried in the curve of his neck it’s as if every horrible thing he’s ever had to go through somehow gets unloaded from his chest, finding its place somewhere else with each falling tear.

Jeralt keeps holding him tight, and of all the things he could have done or said he only whispers, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be that father for you even when you still kept being my son for all this time,” and suddenly it’s the only thing that Byleth ever needed to hear.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before his father’s arms release their hold on his, because by now Byleth has learned that apparently he’s terrible at guessing how time flows when he’s hugging someone; and besides, he doesn’t start lessons until next week.

No, what Byleth knows is that when the man’s eyes meet his own and he asks, “I know I haven’t been a great one, kiddo, but can I still try being your dad one more time?” there’s only one possible answer for him, and he breathes it out like it’s something sacred, fighting another surge of tears as his voice cracks with emotion at the realization that he’s not been erased from this world like he thought.

_“Yes”_

* * *

Byleth’s first night at the monastery ends with him getting absolutely no sleep, crying a great deal and finding two heavily armed guards stationed outside his door as soon as he opens it to let Jeralt return to his personal quarters.

Thankfully, his father’s presence at his side throughout the bedtime hours seems to warrant him enough of an alibi for whatever evil deed he’s suspected of having committed, and he’s soon released from the interrogation and into the quiet and peaceful academic lifestyle as if nothing ever happened.

A strange feeling of uneasiness follows him into the subsequent day, but he attributes it to the Archbishop and Seteth’s inquisitive gazes that seem to be fixated on him wherever he goes, and tries to ignore them as much as he can.

Just in case someone gets the brilliant idea to visit his room and rummage through his things while he’s not there, though, Byleth decides to bring the Sword of The Creator with him on every occasion, carefully wrapping the relic under thick cloth to make it unrecognizable even to Rhea.

His Monday afternoon is spent between tending to the flowers at the greenhouse and going to the pond with Jeralt, who asks him a bit more about their previous life together and laughs a bit louder at his funniest childhood stories. To Byleth’s extreme pleasure, his luck in fishing appears to have returned, shining even brighter than before, and he gets to try new fish recipes that night, much to Flayn’s delight.

He doesn’t think too much about the fact that Sothis and Bel seem to be avoiding him each time he invites them anywhere, and busies himself with befriending students and faculty members alike, spending a -some would say exaggerate, but he prefers to call it ‘generous’- amount of money on what he knows to be the Blue Lion’s preferred trinkets and tea leaves.

Everyone has already taken to call him Professor, and hearing the familiar title again makes Byleth experience that strange, fuzzy warm feeling he's still a bit unused to. 

On Tuesday, Sylvain seems genuinely shocked when he receives the newest edition of a board game he says he’s wanted to buy for a while -to which Byleth replies he _absolutely_ had _no idea_ about; and Dimitri’s jaw falls open when he places the prettiest ceremonial sword he could find on the table in front of his eyes, almost making the prince spill his Chamomile all over himself in a sudden fit of cough.

Byleth runs into Grima on his way out of the monastery and into the woods at sundown, and the young man laments how the Church officials suddenly increased his guard duty before telling him to be careful with one of his usual bright and cheerful smiles.

Then Wednesday morning comes; and he is completely drained from having spent the entire night awake trying to master the art of wood carving, but in seeing Annette on the verge of tears at the fox he’s sculpted for her, Byleth thinks a few hours of lost sleep were definitely worth it, and wonders what other animals he could make next.

In the afternoon he leaves the monastery for the nearest town that’s big enough to have a bookstore, and returns with the tome he was looking for just in time for supper. Byleth still doesn’t know how he manages to tell Ashe with a straight face around his peach sorbet that it’s only by chance he happened into his favorite knight’s tale at the market, trying his best to sound convincing as he winks and informs the boy that he heard from other students that, always _by chance_ , it’s also _Ingrid’s_.

Thursday is a difficult day, because Felix declines his invitations to tea three times in a row before telling him in his usual harsh tone something along the lines of ‘ _not having a teatime date with someone I don’t know’_ and that he’s ‘ _not interested in making acquaintances with mediocre swordsmen’_.

For a moment, Byleth ponders the implications of the boy’s wording; and when he bests him at the training grounds, the grumpy prodigy is forced to uphold his side of a bet he shouldn’t have made against his soon-to-be professor.

Fresh from victory, Byleth tells himself that it’s not like he’s meddling into his students’ private and romantic lives if it’s purely for _research purposes_ that he sets up a table for three instead that for only him and Felix; accidentally extending the invitation to the Gautier’s redhead as well and leaving the two childhood friends alone together halfway through the afternoon by masterfully feigning an urgent call of nature he must answer at all costs.

That night he decides to make a quick stop at the bathhouse, but upon his arrival he immediately stiffens in seeing that he and Grima will not be its only occupants this time.

However, it seems that the other men -soldiers employed at Garreg Mach, his new gatekeeping friend tells him- are too busy discussing something pertaining to a recent accident to notice the nasty scar on his chest, and Byleth soon relaxes into the hot, thermal water.

On Friday he helps Dedue all day between kitchen duty and the greenhouse, and Byleth doesn’t miss the fond smile the boy directs at him when he says the reason he’s not watering the Duscur flowers is not negligence, but rather his knowledhe that they require a dry environment to prevent the roots from rotting.

When after dinner he visits the room next to his own, holding in his still color-stained fingers a hand-painted watering can decorated with floral motifs typical to the retainer’s homeland; Byleth swears he can see something glinting in the corner of Dedue’s emerald eyes as the boy opens his door and accepts the gift wholeheartedly. 

Byleth’s Saturday morning is filled with wonderful smells and tastes, and his favorite soft-spoken healer loves the way the sweets they baked together turned out. When he spots Jeritza outside the training grounds alone, Byleth slips a muffin into his hands saying that a student called _Mercedes_ made way too many of those and asked him to share with his colleagues. The combat instructor appears perplexed at his words, but he still takes the treat into his hands.

As soon as he turns around the corner, Byleth looks behind to witness that the Death Knight has already devoured it and is busy licking the crumbs off his fingertips with such enthusiasm he’s only ever witnessed on his face during the heat of battle.

During lunch he gets approached by his father and the mercenaries, who invite him out for the night to a round of bar-hopping in town. He asks them if Bel is going to come as well, but they only say that it’s like she’s trying to erase herself from existence lately. 

Apparently, they seem to have accepted him as another member of their big, enlarged family as if he had truly been their boss's son for all those years, no questions attached, and Byleth has to hold his tears back when they crack jokes at him and fall into a routine of tight hugs and friendly banter just like longtime friends. 

On his way back to his room to get changed he meets Grima, so it only seems natural for him to ask the other man to tag along for their drinking spree. The gatekeeper complains about working hours on Sunday mornings, but in the end, he still accepts, and Byleth heads to his quarters with a satisfied smile on his lips.

As he’s busy dressing himself in a clean tunic, he finds that several letters have been slipped under his door in his absence, along with small notes attached to its front, and he picks one up from the floor.

“ _You have my sincerest thanks for making His Highness smile, Professor. And what you did for me… it made me smile as well,”_ the first one reads, and Byleth doesn’t need to look at the signature to know the deep voice and the Duscur accent the words belong to. He stores the note away in his journal with care, before passing on to the next.

“ _Professor, thank you so much for finding the time to bake those sweets with me today! They turned out splendid, and I am looking forward to making many more of those with you! -Mercedes.”_

A soft smile pops up on his lips, and he mentally thinks he definitely needs to have more baking sessions with the young woman, if only to see the delighted face Jeritza made at her muffin again. 

_“Professor, I’m so happy you gave me that cute little fox! I have written a song for you, and I hope you like it!”_

This one is Annette, he figures out pretty quickly, even if the girl hasn't signed it - due to embarrassment or forgetfulness, Byleth guesses- and hums through the silly and upbeat lyrics she’s attached. 

_“Professor! Pardon my rudeness the other day, I did not mean to act with such impoliteness when confronted with your great generosity. Your gift has indeed taken me by surprise, but it is most certainly one I’ll cherish forever. Please, allow me to express my gratitude by taking you to dinner. – Prince Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.”_

A deep blush spreads on his cheeks as he finds one sent by Dimitri, and a sudden wave of nostalgia comes rushing over him at the memory of the birthday letters the prince used to send him and the brooch that's still carefully kept in his pockets. 

Along with that there are several more, ranging from tiny ‘thank yous’ to longer messages referring to particular events, and Byleth sorts them out one by one, treasuring each one where he can’t lose them.

_“Meet me at the training grounds tomorrow, 3 pm. -F.”_

_“Thanks for the book, Professor! The recommendations you suggested were all fantastic, but I know such fancy editions as the one you handed me are not something our market sells. To think you’d go so out of your way to get this for me… your kindness reminds me so much of my adoptive father, Lonato. I’m glad you’ll be walking these halls with us for one year. -Ashe”_

_“Apologies for this sudden note, Professor. Ashe shared with me some books you suggested him, and told me you picked them with me in mind as well. I am really grateful for that. -Ingrid”_

_“Hey Professor, you’re great and everything, but think you can spare our class for your sister? Nothing personal, truly, it’s just something about the tights. And two other big qualities I can’t picture you having any time soon, I’m afraid. Worry not, though. I’m sure you have your own charms. ;)”_

A little smiley face is drawn at the end of the note, but Byleth still feels a bit sad in reading this particular one, especially because he instantly recognizes the messy handwritimg it belongs to. He wonders what these two big qualities he’s lacking are, and if he should start wearing tights during class as well.

Maybe it will keep Sylvain from joining Bel’s house, he thinks. 

Then, another anonymous message catches his attention, and Byleth doesn't get who the mysterious sender is, but still frowns at the scandalous words it contains.

_“Professor Byleth Eisner, If you were my homework, I’d stay up doing it every night. - Your secret admirer”_

Needless to say, he is _very_ disappointed by this.

Whoever taught this kid his study method, Byleth thinks, must be a real disgrace of a professor, because everyone knows that night hours are not the optimal time to do any kind of academic assignment.

Sighing, Byleth vows to himself to help shaping up this student’s routine into something healthier than a loss of sleep over unfinished homework, and hopes this will be a good first step in rectifying his predecessor's teaching mistakes. He could also hold an all-faculty open seminar about the importance of a salutary, beneficial daily schedule as soon as next week begins, perhaps, and he ponders the idea in his mind as he finishes buttoning up his shirt and heads out into the night.

When he sees that there are people waiting for him at the gates, ready to enjoy a night into town in his company, Byleth's heart melts a little, and he knows he’s definitely not going to be erased.

* * *

To his extreme surprise, it turns out that his lightweight of a friend Grima is a real dragon when it comes to drinking. Byleth’s already half-gone after his second glass, while the gatekeeper’s still fresh as a daisy after his seventh, busy participating in a drinking competition against his father.

It’s the first time Byleth sees Jeralt ever losing to someone, and even if the Beer Breaker technically still hasn’t; he steps in anyway, trying to stop the tavern lady from bringing them any more ale and prevent his father from getting any drunker than this before he himself gets to the point where he’s unable to articulate a simple “ _No, thanks_ ”.

His father’s mercenaries fill the room with their applause and vulgar chants at the dethronement of the up-to-that-moment otherwise undefeatable King of Drinking; but apparently, it seems that for how sober the young champion looks, the alcohol must have still had its effect on him, because Grima is unusually quiet and does not partake in any of the festivities for his newly-acquired title.

Byleth wonders why, and then forgets about his questions entirely at his next sip of the golden liquid, or when he finds himself dragged to the dancefloor in the middle of the inn by a blond soldier that reminds him too much of Dima and yet kisses him in a way that’s too sloppy and violent to really be enjoyable as the song ends and he wraps his arms around his neck.

It’s only at the end of the night, when he struggles to stand up on his own two feet and the gatekeeper offers to escort him to his room for fear of him falling down in the middle of the monastery grounds and being found in a pool of vomit by students on the next morning; that his friend answers for him what Byleth keeps forgetting to ask.

As soon as he utters word about a mysterious individual that has been found assassinated inside the library at the start of the week, Byleth feels like he’s been slapped so hard he can’t feel the insides of his mouth anymore. Suddenly, he’s hyper-aware of his half-unbuttoned shirt, from which the fresh breeze of the night licks at his exposed chest; or the way his hair, damp with sweat, stick to his face in messy strands. 

Byleth doesn’t really need to remember about the guards stationed outside his room, of Bel’s sudden reticence to spend time with him or her father, nor know about the disappearance of the well-loved librarian Tomas to put the pieces together and guess that whoever ended Solon that night has a name that starts with _S_ and ends with _othis_.

As he’s carefully laid onto his bed and covered with a warm set of blankets by his attentive friend, Byleth smiles gratefully at Grima and thinks that he absolutely needs to have a few words with the goddess come morning.

* * *

Byleth’s still on the worst hangover he’s ever had when Hanneman and Manuela end their introductory speech to the Academy.

Silently, he sends a small thanks to his past-self for having been diligent enough the first time, because he can still remember it -the most important parts, at least.

A good thing he’s noticed since his arrival in this dimension, is that being separated from Sothis is steadily helping him to recover more and more of his memories, along with sharpening his perception and making him able to remember small and subtle details.

He eyes the goddess -or at least what he can see of her, Bel- from where he stands on the opposite side of the courtyard, in a way that he hopes will convey “ _We need to talk.”_

Unfortunately for him, she doesn’t spare a single glance in his direction, gaze focused on the three house leaders standing in front of their respective classrooms, and he finds himself stuck listening to Seteth rambling about monastery rules and a teaching system Byleth will gladly ignore again in favor of a more practical and tactical approach before the crest scholar’s voice rings like a melodious bird inside his ears, freeing him from the terrible headache he’s currently experiencing.

“Since you are new here,” Hanneman begins, and he might not be the legendary songstress who’s standing at his side, but to Byleth he sounds just as lovely, “we have decided to allow you two your first pick. Manuela will take charge of the remaining house, while I will teach an advanced course on Crestology that will be compulsory for all the Three Houses. I expect you both to stress out adequately how important it is for all your students to attend it regularly. That is all. Now, if you’ll follow me to meet the young leaders before making your choice—”

“That will not be necessary,” Bel cuts him off, and in her eyes Byleth sees a burning resolve he wasn’t expecting to find on her dispassionate face. “I’ve already made mine.”

Seteth’s eyes widen a bit at her sudden declaration, and the advisor clears his throat before asking “And what would that be?” in that half-mocking, bitter tone of his.

Byleth wonders what she and Sothis must have chosen. He’s positive that the latter will favor the Black Eagles to gain additional intel from the inside, but he knows Claude’s Golden Deers have more appeal—

“—I choose the Blue Lions,” she says.


	9. art of war (never fall)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- two 'siblings' butchering each other!  
> \- MULTIPLE TIMES!
> 
> also featuring a choking Seteth because he's being a prick and Sothis is lowkey done with him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh I actually finished this chapter 2 days ago but I completely forgot about posting it due to an exam! Cross your fingers for me, lovely readers!
> 
> Chapter's title taken from the song Art Of War by We The Kings! 
> 
> Also, thank you so much for reading this story, and to the great souls showering me in kudos and comments: you're my angels please don't stop I always giggle so much when I open Ao3 and find those!! <333
> 
> Hope you like this chapter, and I'm sorry if I debunked some of your theories for the House choice haha!

_We were just two kids thrown into the flames, we would never ever be the same_

* * *

Byleth never really understood how a single phrase could make someone’s blood boil.

Physical attacks, injuries, the threat of a raised weapon aimed to harm someone’s loved ones – all those he did, because they were very real and very able to tear flesh and bone apart, causing an undeniable amount of suffering to their recipient.

But words?

He often wondered how something that wasn’t even tangible could hurt more than steel and raw wounds, how it managed to spark that flicker of anger into one’s eyes until it became a raging, incandescent inferno.

_No_ , Byleth decided a long time ago. _Words; he did not understand._

Then, over time and during the many battles he fought at his students’ side, he started to see how some of the cheekiest ones (Felix, mostly; but Sylvain following in close second) used to provoke their opponents, throwing at them cutting remarks specifically designed to elicit in them the most infuriated, animalistic reactions possible.

Byleth had always believed it to be simply another strategy; nothing more, nothing less. Just a way to enrage your opponents and making them lose accuracy, or the ability to think properly. Which was basically everything on the battlefield, and he knew it.

And that’s precisely why Byleth had begun to follow his pupils’ example, even if his words were way less pungent and dark than those of the two Faerghus’ nobles. ‘ _Professor’s jokes_ ’ Felix had once called them one time after he overheard him, snorting; but whatever the appellative, they still worked - to both the ever-grumpy swordsman and Byleth’s own surprise.

He never even considered the possibility of a similar tactic having this same effect on him, because whenever his enemies usually retorted, muttering something about meeting up with his mother -which Byleth couldn’t fathom happening any time soon, since his mom was dead and everything- he never really bothered to understand what they meant with such empty threats. Those men never stuck around long enough for him to ask, either, because every time they yelled such things they got promptly cut down by an enraged Dimitri way before the questions could leave Byleth’s lips.

(Not that he cared too much about their answers, anyway.)

It took Byleth a lot of time to even recognize how words could actually hurt – him; and by extension other people as well. But that only happened when they were something said by his dying father under the pouring rain, or when the broken husk of a prince he had sworn his life to dared to call him _ghost_ atop a crumbling staircase.

 _Those words_ , Byleth thinks, _had_ _made him **sad**._

But not angry, and never mad; because those words were something that felt like salt and cold raindrops mixing on his tongue, leaving a melancholic aftertaste that was so far removed from the flames and the inferno he always struggled to understand.

But then—

“—I choose the Blue Lions,” Bel says, and Byleth suddenly _does._

He knows it’s Sothis who’s behind her choice, that the girl probably never had a say in the matter, but the embers have already started to burn and Byleth just can’t stop them, not anymore.

He realizes he doesn’t _want_ to stop them, either.

His grip tightens around the thick cloth hiding the Sword of The Creator. “No,” he says, voice as cold as the winter in Faerghus, “no you **_don’t_**.”

A shocked gasp follows his words from Manuela’s standing spot, and the courtyard buzzes in excitement. Byleth turns, only to notice that the songstress has placed her hands on her mouth in a scandalized gesture, and that everyone else is staring – gaping - at him, the three house leaders included.

Bel stands before him, on the other side of the small squared space. “Just trust me on this, Ben--” she begins, and his attention darts back to her immediately.

“--How can I?” Byleth cuts her off, and he’s _seething_. “You avoid me for a week, and now… now **_this_** _?_ Was this the reason you hid away in the first place? To turn your back on me? _”_

The buzz around them increases in volume, and Byleth knows everyone’s eyes are on them, but it’s like he’s become deaf to everything except the heavy thundering inside his chest, and can only focus on the fact that Sothis _planned_ to do this to him. She knew how much he cared. How he wanted to lead the Blue Lions again and--

“No! There were things to do!” Bel tries to protest, and she’s raised her voice as well. “Like interrogating those bandits you captured, and—”

“--And what?” Byleth retorts, sharply. “Taking a stroll near the library immediately after our arrival, without having the decency to inform me of your plans? Did you even know the guards tailed me for a day after your brilliant idea?”

“I didn’t want you to follow!” Her voice is full of irritated exasperation when she shouts her reply, and her hands press on her hips, digging tight into the skin. Byleth can see her knuckles going white for the sheer effort in controlling herself.

Too bad he can’t do the same _._

“And why so? What’s so wrong if I do?!” he growls, taking a step in her direction.

Bel mimics his gesture, her feet stomping loud and heavy on the stone floor when she meets him halfway across the courtyard, eliciting a chorus of small yelps from their spectators.

“Don’t make me say it out loud, _Byleth_!” she roars, throwing the words at him like a well-aimed dagger that hits true. “You know you’re not as strong as before!”

It hits, and it _hurts._

The embers flicker a little stronger.

“Oh, so that’s what you really think about _me_? And what does that have to do with my students, anyway? **_My_ **_students_! **_Not_** _yours, --_!”

Byleth has to use all of his willpower to restrain himself from screaming _Sothis_ on the top of his lungs, but he was close, he is still so dangerously, terribly close to blowing their entire cover up, and it’s the first time he’s ever argued this much with the goddess and he’s scared and sorry and confused and angry and hurt because she left him behind—

“--Because you **can’t** protect them **! Not anymore**!” she yells, and Byleth loses it.

Completely.

The embers ignite into full-scale, devastating flames.

His hand goes to the sword at his hip, and he tears the cloth away, tossing it aside as he points the blade at the goddess.

The inferno rages on.

“Let **_me_** decide who can protect them better, **_Sothis!_** ” he bellows.

She grins at him, almost ferally, before unsheathing her own weapon from her side.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have, _Ben--_ ” she says, and her smile spreads wider as she brings the Sword of The Creator in front of her.

An identical copy of his, except for the faint, orange glow it emanates in her hands.

_When did she--?_

As if anticipating his thoughts, a loud, choked moan comes from behind them, and Byleth turns to see Seteth gasping for breath, eyes comically wide.

“I…y-you…The Sword of The Creator… But how--? The green-haired man sputters out, voice uneven and legs shaking.

Bel _-Sothis_ \- glances at him, still grinning wickedly.

“Oh, ‘sup, Cichol. It’s been a long time, huh? Come say hello to your mother.”

At her words, the Archbishops’ advisor releases a shriek that resembles more a dying deer than anything even remotely human, before falling down on his knees and onto the ground in a half-unconscious, catatonic state.

Byleth stops breathing, and it feels as if everyone around him has, too, as people freeze around them, barely sparing any attention for the unresponsive Seteth still gagging on the floor.

Bel ignores her surroundings, seemingly unfazed by their spectator’s reactions, and her piercing gaze darts back to him again.

“…Even if I win now,” she continues, resuming from where she got interrupted by her son, “I’ll still have to use a Pulse to erase this mess we made. Believe me when I say I never wanted for things to come down to this, but you leave me no other choice, dear _brother_. Very well--”

Her tone is almost back to her normal, cold and calculating one now, and yet in her eyes Byleth can see the same hurt and flames that are reflected in his own, dancing wildly to the same wrathful beat.

“--Defeat me, and I’ll let you do as you please. Show this goddess--”

She lunges forward mid-sentence, slashing with her relic faster than lightning before he can utter a single word in response.

“— ** _your art of war, Byleth!_** ”

The clash of bone against bone when their blades collide with each other sends sparks flying into the air.

* * *

Dimitri never really understood how someone like him could be worth fighting for.

Ever since that horrible day in Duscur, he felt like every sacrifice that was made to keep him safe and alive had been in vain.

There was no glory, no pride in dying a knight on the battlefield. There was only agony, and pain, and blood spilling from the mouths of all the injured as they regretted their final moments alive, apart from their loved ones; and Dimitri had seen it all.

He still remembers Glenn’s mutilated remains, his father’s severed head rolling up to his feet in an expression that was anything but peaceful, eyes full of unspeakable horror as their lives had both been taken just so his could last a little longer, have a small chance to escape that same fate.

His family and his people had given up everything for him, and after all those years, he still failed to avenge them.

Years, and he accomplished nothing. How could anyone want to stand at his side?

_No,_ Dimitri decided a long time ago. _He wasn’t someone worth fighting for._

That’s why having not one – but _two_ professors – currently arguing for who gets to lead _his class_ in front of his eyes strikes him as something completely and utterly unconceivable.

But it’s not just that.

The atmosphere around the two siblings is tense and heavy, way more than what a simple dispute over such choice would require, and Dimitri quickly notices how their words tear through each other like sharp, poisoned knives.

Then, the man’s grip -the gentle one whom all his classmates adore and who had invited him for tea, bringing him a ceremonial sword for no particular reason – suddenly tightens around something wrapped under thick layers of cloth.

A hidden weapon.

When he unsheathes it, his sister grins, wild and feral, and draws out an identical one, majestic and made entirely of bone, from her side.

This latter’s one, though, is pulsating in a vivid, orange hue, as opposed to her brother’s dull and darker one; and Dimitri’s mind is soon reminded of his family’s legendary lance Areadbhar at its sight.

He holds his breath, realizing a truth beyond belief. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Claude and El twitching in front of their respective classrooms, and realizes they must have come to his same conclusion.

The girl is holding a _Sacred Relic_ in her hands, pointing it at her brother, and if this scene isn’t enough to make him freeze in shock and disbelief, then witnessing Seteth’s horrified reaction at the spectacle they’ve all apparently been invited to definitely _is_.

As the young woman mutters something to the advisor, making him fall to the ground with a look of complete bewilderment on his face; Dimitri sees how her and her brother’s stances have shifted, settling into a battle one, and knows they’re ready to fight.

For the Blue Lions.

For _him_?

He wonders who these people brandishing twin relic swords are, how they seemed to appear at the most convenient moment to save him and the other noble heirs merely a week before.

How the young man seemed to know his preferred tea, his favorite kind of gift to receive, the exact topics of conversation he liked.

How he looked so oddly _familiar_.

As if…

_But that’s impossible_ , Dimitri thinks, driving the absurd thought away _._

_I’ve never seen any of them before._

And yet, in watching their blades clash against each other and the man summoning a glowing orb of fire into his palm; he is reminded of an unexpected encounter in a snowy and giant maze from many, many years before, on a magical night that always felt more fantasy than reality to him.

At the memory, his hand moves on its own under his robes, searching for the familiar, metallic presence at his side.

When his fingers wrap around the tiny dagger he always carries with him, Dimitri selfishly hopes that he can be part of the reason why these mysterious people who remind him so much of the angel from his past want to lead his House so desperately.

(Even if he’s not someone worth fighting for.)

* * *

Byleth dodges another Fire conjured from Ben’s hands and quickly retaliates, using the elongated reach of her sword to lash out at him from a safe distance.

She's trying to keep her position of advantage, minimizing the risks of a direct confrontation with her opponent while zoning him out of his range of melee attacks.

Byleth knows that Ben is faster and stronger than her, and that any try at facing the young man head-on will surely end up in defeat on her part. But what she lacks in physical qualities, she makes it up for with stunning precision and the ability to use the full power of the Sword of The Creator.

A trait Ben doesn't share with her, judging by the lack of its glow and the fact he can't extend its blade like she does, having to rely on spells for long-range coverage instead.

Just as Sothis had anticipated.

Byleth smiles. _This_ _is perfect_ , she thinks. She'll just need to wait for him to deplete his magic reserves, and then—

_“Hit him! Use this opening! Faster, **faster**!”_ the goddess urges, and Byleth feels her body move on its own, compelled to obey the orders shouted into her mind.

She lunges forward, stepping into his sword’s reach, forced to discard the careful and tactical approach she’s maintained until now in favor of this brute display of violence Sothis is requesting from her.

She misses Ben's arm by a hair's breadth, and the goddess whines.

_“Not enough, Bel!”_

Then their blades clash again, and there’s nothing of Byleth's usual composure and coolness in her following strikes. It’s almost as if Sothis’ anger and hurt overflowed into her, fueling her zeal to fight against this man who dared to make the goddess -her only friend- upset.

This is not how she would have ideally wanted to treat this skirmish.

But as the goddess keeps shouting commands into her mind, Byleth knows she can only obey. Just like she did before, when she had let Sothis decide which words were to come out of her mouth, or how her body should have moved against this rebellious new brother of hers.

She trusts her divine judgment completely, and knows she will lead her to victory.

As to reward her for such faith; her next slash finds its target, sending the small segments of bone to wrap around Ben’s blade like a whip.

The hilt of her sword pulsates into her hands, and Byleth rejoices in the feeling of her victory approaching as she pulls it, aiming to disarm her opponent.

 _“Bel, no! Stop!”_ screams Sothis in her mind, but it’s too late. Byleth has already started to wrench the sword away from Ben’s hands, and she doesn’t understand what she did wrong, why she should stop, because she’s winning and—

The young man in front of her smirks and charges forward, using the momentum of her pull to propel himself against her at full speed.

When they collide, Byleth barely has any time to register the force of the impact on her body as she’s sent flying onto the hard stone floor, losing her grip on the sword in the process. As soon as she tries to lift herself up, Ben is immediately on her, towering over her figure with his blade at her throat.

“I win,” he announces proudly, a satisfied smile on his lips.

The goddess panics and hurts inside her. “ _We can’t let him, Bel, we can’t!”_ she shrills, and Byleth agrees.

“Not yet,” she replies to him, flatly. Her breath is still ragged from the fight, and each word feels like talking with a mouthful of glass shards, but it’s the best she can manage.

“I still have all my Pulses. That’s the reason we’re fighting for, after all.”

Ben grits his teeth, and his eyes fill again with the same flames dancing beneath Sothis’s.

The goddess is silent next to her.

“I don’t care how many you have! One, ten, or a hundred, I’ll just keep defeating you, **over and over again!”** he thunders.

As Byleth starts shattering and reshaping the reality around her, enveloping the world in that soft, purple glow, his voice reaches her ears one more time.

****

**_“_ I will never fall, Sothis!”**

Then, she jumps, finding herself in front of the young man again.

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

Bel dodges another Fire conjured from his hands and quickly retaliates, using the elongated reach of her sword to lash out at him from a safe distance.

Byleth grunts and focuses on avoiding her precise strikes, knowing full well that she plans on keeping him outside of his melee range until he’s exhausted by magic consumption.

The Sword of the Creator is heavy in his hands, and it gets heavier after every strike.

For some reason, it feels so very wrong to hold it, now.

Alien, almost, like something that’s not meant for him to use.

(Not anymore.)

Byleth parries her next attack at the last moment, and his heart aches.

_Sothis_ , he thinks. **_Sothis knows._** _How dare she tells this stranger my weaknesses?_

He really can’t understand what’s going on in the goddess’s mind.

He’s not even sure he actually wants to _try_ , at the moment.

_Sothis, **Sothis**_.

Sothis lied to him.

She stood between him and his students, went as far as to order this girl to attack him, only to make sure he’d be thoroughly separated from them.

Just so he can lose his chance to make everything alright, make everyone happy, this time.

Byleth knows he should hate her. He should feel the inferno raging inside him, just like it did before, when she first launched herself against him, when he felt nothing but the urge to attack, and hurt, burning fiercely inside his core.

_Burn, burn, burn._

But then, why does he feel so much like crying now?

On the other side of the courtyard, Byleth knows Dimitri is watching. He knows everyone is, and most of them should have understood, at this point, that both he and this girl aren’t what they’re claiming to be.

Before, Sothis told him she’s going to save one pulse to clean after their mess. He’s not sure how many jumps Bel has, but if she’s truly his equivalent in this dimension, she should have about three. Less than five, for sure. This should leave her with… two? Three?

Byleth’s never been that great at counting. Thank goodness he’s not a math teacher, he thinks, before charging at her with his sword.

Mid-charge, he does something she’s not expecting. Byleth throws his weapon in her direction like a dagger, catching Bel by surprise and forcing her to duck down in a desperate attempt to dodge.

This last-second maneuver makes her lose sight of him for precious moments, in which he conjures a large amount of electricity to his fingertips, unseen.

He really doesn’t want to do this.

 _Just a little bit longer_ , he thinks. _Just a couple more tries._

When the girl rises to stand again, Byleth has to hold back his tears as he hits her right arm with a powerful Thoron, making her drop her weapon and cry out in pain.

The buzz around them stops, and he’s sure he must look like a monster, now, as the only sound that can be heard in the silent courtyard is the one of shocked gasps and scared squeaks.

Byleth doesn’t have the luxury to care, though, and he steps up to where she is curled up on the floor, holding her injured limb with her unharmed hand. 

He has to do this.

_For the Blue Lions._

_For Dimitri._

The stinging in his eyes worsens as he points his blade at her throat for the second time in the day.

_They’re worth this. They’re all worth fighting for._

Bel raises her head to look up at him, defiant but tired.

Glass shatters before he can even announce his victory.

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

Byleth is tired.

She’s tired as she dodges the same Fire conjured from Ben’s hands one more time; she’s tired when she has to retaliate again, using the elongated reach of her sword to lash out at him from a safe distance.

Ben is no ordinary opponent, and even without the divine powers of the goddess and the full potential of the Sacred Relic on his side, he’s still a force to be reckoned with.

It’s clear their combat styles have many similarities, stemming from the same unforgiving school and strict teacher of a father; but his one is a more polished, refined version of hers, honed by many battles more of practice he’s fought during a war she hadn’t even heard about before his arrival.

The young man is smart, and quick-to-adapt, and it always feels like he’s predicting her every move.

Which could very well be true, given the fact he’s as immune as she is to the effects of the Divine Pulse and is able to retain his memories pertaining to the erased past afterwards, unlike everyone else, and this only makes things harder. 

Byleth huffs, because she’s tired of not knowing what to do, of losing and disappointing Sothis over and over again.

But more than anything else, she isn’t sure the goddess even _wants_ to fight anymore.

Whenever she glances at her side, Byleth sees that the embers in her eyes have dulled down; and only the ashes of regret remain in those emerald depths, where flames fueled by wrath once burned bright.

Sothis is silent beside her, and looks just as exhausted. She has even stopped giving her instructions, muttering sloppy and incoherent commands here and there that are almost impossible for Byleth to understand.

She dodges another hit, this time a Thoron that she can still vividly remember searing her skin; and she’s so _tired_. 

Byleth truly wanted to make that man pay. She wanted to teach him a lesson for hurting Sothis, for defying her will and raising his weapon at the goddess.

But now, she has started to realize that this might not be what Sothis wants, at all; and she doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do as her reason to fight slowly fades away, too.

It doesn’t really come off as a surprise to Byleth when she gets cornered into a wall and her knees give up on the green grass below, as the goddess’s desperate sobs fill her ears and her chest tightens with the feeling that she’s done something terribly wrong.

What does, however, come off as a surprise, is the fact that Ben has also dropped down on the ground to kneel in front of her, and his arms reach out for her as tears fall all over his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Sothis, Bel, I’m so sorry,” he cries, hugging her tight, “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

The goddess nods behind tears, and her ethereal form goes to add herself to their embrace, invisible to anyone but her.

 _“I’m sorry, Ben, I’m sorry too,”_ she says, and Byleth tentatively hugs Ben back, wrapping her arms around him just like Sothis is doing.

Somehow, this feels like the _right_ thing to do.

“Sothis says she’s sorry,” she begins, voice low and barely audible. “And… I am sorry, too.”

The last part of her apology is nothing more than a whisper, and yet she still feels his hold tighten on her, as something in the corners of her own eyes starts stinging.

_“The Blue Lions are his, Bel. He’s…he’s shown us he can do a perfectly decent job at protecting them, wouldn’t you agree?”_

The goddess is smiling now, and even though her eyes are still red and puffy; she’s never looked more radiant.

_Yes_ , Byleth softly replies. _I completely agree, Sothis._

The stinging doesn’t go away as she uses her last pulse for the day; but her chest, for some unknown and mysterious reason, now feels incredibly lighter.

**℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧Ω℧**

“--That is all. Now, if you’ll follow me to meet the young leaders before making your choice—” Hanneman’s words of introduction greet them immediately after their jump, and Bel’s voice is quick to cut him off again.

“That will not be necessary,” she says, and in her eyes Byleth sees something warm and tender he wasn’t expecting to find on her face. “I’ve already made mine.”

Seteth’s eyes widen a bit at her sudden declaration, even if this is nothing compared to his previous, astonished performance at his mother’s sudden revelation, Byleth thinks.

The advisor, unaware of the amused glances he and Bel are addressing him, clears his throat before asking “And what would that be?” in that half-mocking, bitter tone of his.

Bel turns to smile at him conspiratorially before replying.

“Why, the Golden Deers, of course!”


	10. fairytale (kill a dragon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, featuring:
> 
> \- Babysitter duo Grima and Bel!  
> \- Drunk beyond salvation Ben!  
> \- Jealous Sothis!
> 
> \- Guess who: Garreg Mach's-most-wanted-criminal-at-this-point-is™ edition!
> 
> -A LOT of shenanigans!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GUYS WHAT HAVE I DONE 
> 
> I would say I'm sorry, but that would be a lie.
> 
> Chapter title taken from the song Fairytale by Culture Code. [You don't need to be Prince Charming to me, I just need this to be real. I don't need no Fairytale, you don't need to kill a dragon for me.]
> 
> I can't really do notes on Grima's characterization as I would like to without spoiling his *true* origins in this fic but please just accept him as OOC with slight hints of the OG Gatekeeper's personality.
> 
> As always, enjoy (I'm kinda proud of this chapter for once ahahaha) and please share with me what you liked or didn't!!! Your comments made my day every time, and I'm so grateful for all the support I'm receiving! <3333333333333
> 
> Feel free to also share theories/ideas/conspiracies etc ;)) I'll do my best to address them all! *Nauts Ketchum moment*

_You don't need to be Prince Charming to me, I just need this to be real._

* * *

_~~My diary~~ _

_ Information Exchange Journal  _

_ Saturday 3rd – Harpstring Moon _

_Bel, I’m sorry for ~~“kicking your ass”, as my students commented,~~ winning in the mock battle between our houses. _

_I have to say Raphael and Lysithea were especially strong opponents, I am almost jealous of them being in your class. Should I start gifting them flowers?_

_(I’m joking on this; in case I didn’t convey it. Father says I’m getting better, though.)_

_You fought well, too._

_And I must say those tea leaves you gave Ferdinand for his birthday were a great choice. I overheard him discussing their supreme and refined taste with Hubert, the other day, and he looked enthusiastic._

_I hope he can get into your class, since ~~I don’t think I’ll be able to withstand him yelling his own name one more time in case he joins mine~~ he seems like a nice guy._

_Also, I believe we ought to recruit as many students as possible from the Black Eagles. ~~I don’t want to see them die again-~~ \- They are not enemies I wish to make anew._

_This reminds me we should start our operation soon, since the only notable event for this month will be a mission involving those bandits I’ve already apprehended – it should get canceled or replaced by something else._

_(Please share with me what you’ve learned from their interrogation, too.)_

_I know you’ve had a busy week, but meet me to discuss all the details? I’ve managed to get hold of the Black Eagles’ schedule to investigate the Empress’s quarters in her absence. Retrieving the dagger is of the utmost importance right now._

_P.S. Throwing a birthday party for Annette this Friday._

_~~I’d be delighted if you came.~~ _ _~~You’re very welcome to join us.~~ You can come if you want._

_P.P.S. Want to “crack open a cold one” with me and Grima later? I’m not sure what that means, but meeting spot is in front of the sauna after dinner._

_~~Love,~~ _

_~~I hope this letter finds you well,~~ _

_Tell Sothis I said hi._

_~~Byleth.~~ _ _~~Your br~~ ~~Professor Eisner~~ ~~Ben.~~_

_Ben._

Sothis chuckles in her head as soon as she reaches the end of the note.

 _“Is he really apologizing for having won?”_ the goddess asks, crossing her arms in front of her chest in her usual fashion. _“And what’s up with all those erased words? He scribbled his own name at least **thrice** in here! I don’t know what’s worse between that and his ridiculous slang!” _

Byleth just shrugs her shoulders helplessly in response, and sets to memorize the important stuff before burning any proof of the existence of this small piece of paper she found slid under her door that evening.

 _“Oh, and by the way, Bel,”_ Sothis adds, _“you’re welcome for my suggestions on those tea leaves. I know I’m great - I really do- though I wouldn’t die if you said that a bit more“_ she gestures dramatically, floating around the tiny room as she watches her slip into the brand-new Golden Deer ochre loungewear she received from a visibly displeased Seteth immediately after the House selection.

Byleth looks up at her as she finishes tying up her shoelaces.

_You’re great, Sothis, and thank y--_

The goddess cuts her off abruptly.

 _“H-Hush, you, let me finish!”_ A faint blush starts spreading over Sothis’s pouting face, and she turns to face the wall before speaking again. _“I_ \- I _was also thinking we should go to that party, and I bet Mercedes’ is taking care of all the sweets and it’s been so long since I last tasted cake-- ”_

Byleth feels something light and airy making its way inside her throat; and as she heads out of the dormitories and to the sauna, where two young men are waving at her from the bathhouse terrace, she can’t help but smile a little.

* * *

“So, how’s it going with your classes?” Grima asks from his side, where the white-haired man is comfortably leaning on the stone baluster overlooking the entrance to the training grounds. His beer mug is set on the hard surface next to his arms, and Byleth flinches every time the young gatekeeper moves for fear of him knocking it down and spilling its contents on the poor guards stationed just a few feet below and currently on night patrol.

“The Blue Lions are very polite and dedicated,” Byleth replies, before placing his friend’s tankard a bit farther on the railing, away from his dangerously unpredictable elbows. “They’re skilled students and fighters, and I can only hope to do a good job as their professor.”

He takes a sip of his own alcohol between words, and feels Grima gently nudging him in the ribs.

“Aww, c’mon Professor, no need to be modest! Everyone’s heard tales of your charm! We guards are already making bets, you know?” he gingerly says, and Byleth almost chokes on his drink.

“B-bets?” he flushes, managing not to spurt the golden liquid out of his nose. “What kind of bets?”

“Oh, yes, what kind of bets?” Bel echoes from his other side, where she’s propped up against the baluster with both her elbows, face in her hands and mug already empty beside her. “We’re very curious.”

She’s turned away from the courtyard scenery barely enough to look at Grima, and Byleth swears he can see her eyes glinting green there for a moment.

He eyes her suspiciously, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

“For… research purposes,” she quickly adds, attempting an unconvincing and uncharacteristic smile that reminds him a lot more of the whimsical goddess who once inhabited his head rather than the stoic, teal-haired woman standing in front of him.

Byleth’s eyebrow stays raised.

The white-haired man grins impishly, ignoring their little interaction as he gestures at them to come closer as if he was about to reveal a forbidden secret meant only for their privileged ears.

“Bets about… who will be the first student to confess to the Professor--,” he reveals in a whispered breath as soon as they gather around him, “…. and who will be his lucky partner at the ball”.

At his words, Byleth sprays his beer all over himself.

“C- conf… W- ** _what_??!**” he sputters between coughs, as a sudden rush of heat washes over his neck and facial features.

His upper body feels like it’s been set on fire, and Byleth thinks It must be the alcohol eventually kicking in, blame his ridiculously low tolerance. He’s very grateful to know Bel and Sothis are with him to provide support, though, especially in case—

“Oh, I heard my brother prefers blondes. Though I’m not sure there are many strong, attractive male specimens fitting that hair criterion around here—” his acquired sister chimes in, interrupting his mental ramblings, and -is that a _wink_ she’s doing?

Byleth blinks, and suddenly -he doesn’t feel that grateful anymore.

“You traitor!” he whines in protest, trying to cover her mouth as Bel evades his grab and starts running around the small terrace with him chasing sloppily after her much more sober back, in a desperate attempt to catch and silence her on his preferences for a _certain_ Prince.

Grima observes them with glee in his eyes, and his soft laugh soon fills the cool night air.

“Don’t worry, Professor, nothing escapes my vigilant eye!” he chirps proudly, and his tone is slightly teasing as he utters his next words, “After all, it’s not like last week you spent all Saturday night kissing this tall, fair-haired soldier in the midst of a tavern…”

“ ** _Ben_????!**” Bel asks at the same time a loud, defeated moan escapes Byleth’s lips.

“Not you too, Grima…” he sighs, knowing full-well that Sothis’ curiosity will not be sated until he provides a meticulously detailed recount of the events of that night, and he’s not so keen on remembering how the _not-Dima_ tasted on his tongue, or how the muscular man pushed him against the filthy tavern’s walls and ran his hands through his dark hair and then—

No, that night had been a mistake.

“There’s no way I’m telling you about all that, Bel” he firmly states.

Grima just smiles and shoves his own pint in his direction, which Byleth promptly refuses with a small wave of his hand.

“And don’t even try to get me drunk, last week was only an unfortunate accident which will never repeat itself, not that I remember any of it-- ”

* * *

“—And he looked so much like him, with his blond locks and his crystal clear eyes and he was _there_ and my Dima is _gone_ and I didn’t even tell him _I loved him_ , oh Goddess, **_I never even told him--!_** ” Ben sobs from his position on the bench where he’s curled up against Grima, as the young gatekeeper is busy making sure his drunken friend doesn’t fall face down even while sitting.

Tears adorn the teal-haired man’s face in an unflattering way, and his skin is red and slick with sweat. It strikes Sothis how much of a messy crier Byleth actually is, despite his stoic and unflappable demeanor.

_“Bel, quick! Do… do something”_ she urges, voice a little panicked. _“His friend is totally beating us in the ‘comfort your dear ones’ thing!”_

_But I don’t know what to do, Sothis_ , the girl protests, looking at the two men sitting together, next to each other.

_“Just go sit with them, hug him or... I don’t know, anything is better than standing still, looming over them bonding! We can’t lose this, Bel!”_ she urges in her ear, as she floats above their weird trio.

_I didn’t know this was a competition,_ Bel mumbles, but to Sothis’s relief, she still goes to sit on the small and cramped wooden plank just outside of the bathhouse building. _And I don’t believe I’m good at… hugging._

_That’s what he used to say all the time, too,_ Sothis wants to say, but the girl speaks again before she can utter a single word. She’s unusually… talkative, lately. She wonders if it has something do to with Ben’s presence, or her choice of class, but then remembers that every Byleth who chose the Golden Deers has never been quite this chatty. Not until their souls merged, at least--

_\--Besides, I also believe the ‘get him drunk’ part was your idea, Sothis,_ Bel adds as she places her hand atop her brother’s in a timid and unsure attempt to soothe his apparent distress. _There was no need to force all that alcohol down on him after he refused the gatekeeper’s offer._

Sothis blinks. _“Are you reproaching **me** now? I was just curious! That’s what all grandmas do, inquire about their grandchildren’s love lives and such while offering them some ale! Or at least, I believe so…”_

She murmurs that last line under her breath, and Sothis already hates the doubtful tone in her own voice enough as it is, but then Bel looks at her with an unconvinced expression on her face and if that wasn’t bad enough the girl turns to that Grima guy who’s stealing her precious Ben away, and the man just _smiles at her softly_.

She has to suffocate the urge to scream as Bel _blushes_ like she’s never seen the girl do before and the man turns to _pat Ben’s back._

Sothis is _livid._

**_How_** \--! How dare this unremarkable boy seduce all of her grandchildren! And at _the same time_ , no less, this _greedy **swine**_ \--!

“There, there,” he hums, his hands caressing Ben’s shoulders with slow and careful motions. “Your sister is also here, now. You can talk to us--”

_“What do you mean ‘also’, you **impertinent foolish fool, and you better take your hands off Ben’s pure and immaculate body this instant or I swear** —"_

“--and I believe that… whoever that Dima person was, he knew. Someone as earnest and caring as you are doesn’t need words to convey his most important feelings to the one he loves, Professor.”

“ ** _Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!_** _”_ Sothis finally screams, releasing her pent-up frustration in a loud and ungraceful shriek.

How?!! How can this man say the exact same things she wants to, and before her?!

How can he be so, so, so…

So **infuriatingly** \---

_I think he’s won_ , Bel deadpans, and Sothis pulls her own hair so hard it’s a miracle no chunks of emerald green come off of her untamed mane.

* * *

Byleth doesn’t understand what the goddess is so upset about.

First, she makes her tease Ben to no end with expressions she only barely understands thanks to the fact she’s been informed of her brother’s previous involvement with the prince of Faerghus; then she decides to coerce him into drinking three whole pints of ale and send him into a spiral of self-deprecative thoughts and regrets and finally she starts yelling at the only one who seems to know what do to in this kind of situation -even if the gatekeeper can’t possibly hear her- before cutting off communications completely and disappearing from her sight.

Byleth is worried, because it’s the first time she’s seen Sothis act this way, and wonders what would have changed if she hadn’t been this useless and clueless in cheering Ben up.

Is she had taken him into her arms and said the right words.

If the goddess would have stayed, then.

At least, Byleth is thankful to have his friend Grima in their company, since he’s managed to efficiently calm her brother down a great deal, and this has also put some of her worries to rest; even if she feels like she can still hear Sothis’ voice screaming somewhere in the farthest recesses of her mind whenever she has these kinds of appreciative thoughts towards the young guard, if only for an instant.

“So, uhm, I should probably carry him back to his room,” she gestures at Ben’s sleeping figure, still partially curled over the gatekeeper in what looks an incredibly uncomfortable position for both of them, even if -apparently- her brother isn’t of her same mind, because he’s snoring soundly against the other man’s chest.

“Oh, let me help you, please,” Grima volunteers, moving to get up, but she swiftly shakes her head in refusal.

“No, no, we’ve already bothered you enough as it is,” she rejoins, trying to haul Ben’s limp body over her shoulders without waking him up, and _damn, he’s way heavier than he looks._

“You could never be a bother,” the white-haired man reassures her in that soothing tone of his, and Byleth feels oddly compelled to touch his featherlike strands to see if they’re as soft as they seem, but her hands are still unfortunately busy holding Ben up.

“Besides,” he adds, “the Professor -ehm, your brother, is my friend. It’s a pleasure to aid the both of you, really. You two are the only ones about my age around here, except the students, and it’s not like I can go around befriending nobles, not being the simple guard that I am.”

Byleth frowns, wondering what would be so wrong in hanging out with students, since she’s seen Ben hosting tea parties after tea parties for his students in the past week --even the high-born ones, and wants to tell Grima she’s sure he could definitely make lots of friends among them; but then her brother’s body starts weighing on her so much she can only nod in gratitude, accepting his offer at last.

“Grima. You have my thanks,” she sincerely says, slightly bowing her head as she’s seen her father do with the Archbishop many times and hoping she’s copying the movements right without making a fool out of herself.

The kind man dismisses her gesture politely. “Please, there’s no need,” he says, as Byleth watches him raise up from the bench and go to stand at her side.

She has barely enough time to protest that yes, there is indeed need to thank him that he has already taken Ben in his arms, lifting him with such unexpected strength it leaves her gaping at the sight.

“So,” Grima declares, grinning at her from ear to ear, “lead me onwards, Professor!”

* * *

Thankfully -even if his friend seems unbothered by the added weight, Ben’s room is on the first floor of the dormitories, and it’s almost incredible how the man only slightly twitches in his slumber as he gets carried to bed, still clad in his Blue Lions’ beer-stained loungewear.

“I wish you a good night, Grima,” she says once the gatekeeper has finished helping her tuck Ben under the light covers. “And thank you again for your assistance. I’m sorry to know you’ll be up in some hours to work,” she offers in what she hopes is an apologetic enough tone.

“Oh, no, don’t worry about that!”, Grima counters with a smile, “I’m heading right now to the Dining Hall. The young Empress asked the Archbishop for permission on hosting a party for one of the Black Eagles students there, and I am the one assigned to check if they observe curfew time. You and your brother actually helped me stay up until now without boring myself to death,” he sheepishly explains.

“A… party, you said?” Byleth immediately straightens up from where she’s leaning against Ben’s door.

This wasn’t in the schedule her brother slipped into her pocket as soon as they met earlier that night, and she guesses it is probably because this sounds like an extracurricular activity that would probably not be included in a normal program consisting of lecture hours and combat training.

Even so, this appears to be _very_ promising.

“Ah, yes, all their class will be there, including Professor Manuela, with the only exception of a girl I’ve heard who doesn’t leave her room much, and no other sections have been asked to join. That’s probably why you haven’t heard about it from your own students, I believe,” he quickly clarifies after his detailed explanation, probably mistaking her pensive expression for one of hurt in not having been informed of a festive occurrence happening under her nose.

Unbeknownst to him, Byleth doesn’t care that much about parties, if not for the huge trays of food she can get there for free. At least, that’s what she heard nobles do at fancy events and has wanted to try ever since.

But _this_ , this small bit of knowledge Grima’s delivering to her looks too much like the occasion both Ben and Sothis were waiting for to pass it up, and Byleth can’t do anything but obey this unexpected call of Fate; especially now that she knows the Empress and her wicked, trusted retainer the goddess hates so much will be gone from their quarters for a while.

Byleth is aware she will have to act, and quickly, before her time runs out and the belltower rings twelve times, marking midnight and signaling her that the students will be on their way back to their respective rooms.

Judging by the last eleven and very loud metallic sounds she has heard resonate into the courtyard while watching Grima carry her brother down the bathhouse stairs, it is safe to estimate she has a little less than an hour to break into the Empress's one and find a dagger she has never seen before in all her life.

Which is, in all honesty… actually kind of doable. With some luck, at least.

By happy chance, she's always been incredibly fortunate at any kind of gamble, both with cards around a table in noisy pubs and her own life on dangerous missions, and this won’t be any different from that, she tells herself.

"I must be going now," Byleth announces as she closes Ben’s door and heads towards her own room, ready to turn on her heels and change direction as soon as Grima will walk around the corner of the Officer's Academy in his path to the Dining Hall.

"Have a good night then, Professor," he gently says as they part ways, "both you and your brother. Sleep well. "

She watches the young man walk away as he waves at her from afar, and he's already halfway across the courtyard when Byleth finally decides to speak the words she’s been meaning to for the past minutes, prompting him to face her again.

" **You can call us by our names, Bel and Ben** " she yells, " **I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you did, too!** "

Grima winks at her, face beaming, and brings one hand to his forehead in a military-styled salute before turning his back to her once more.

" **Names successfully reported, Bel!** "

* * *

Byleth rummages through the Empress's belongings with certain haste, and even the knowledge of having the Pulses at her disposal can't fully put her mind at rest about the fact that Sothis still hasn't reappeared, and the only weapons the Adrestian monarch seems to keep in her room are a variety of axes and heavy maces.

She discards leather after steel after silk, sending another neck ruffle to litter the floor of the already messy room where various pieces of clothing - and the entirety of the Black Eagles leader's personal armory- are scattered in every direction.

Obviously, she's finding every possible thing stashed inside those wardrobe shelves - including an armored bear stuffy she wasn't expecting from the stony-faced, solemn girl-- **_except_** that dagger, and Byleth almost groans out loud at her unfruitful search.

Granted; there's still the possibility that the Empress is carrying the blade with her in that exact same moment, using it to slice Ferdinand's birthday cake amidst all the loud cheers and celebration; but Byleth doesn't really want to think about this option, since the least she wants to do for the night is disappoint Sothis even further.

No, she has no intention of coming back empty-handed, not when she can deliver to Ben’s door a nice, metallic surprise which is almost granted to win her the goddess’s favor back.

Byleth has picked the lock of the room in record time --apparently, a skill her father had been right to teach her; but she can’t help but think it will all be useless if she doesn’t manage to retrieve the small object sooner than Sothis takes to braid her hair in the morning.

She empties another drawer, frustration slowly piling up inside her, when a sound of heavy footsteps coming from the corridor instantly sends her on edge, making her seek refuge behind the door.

“ **Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel**!” a loud, slurred moan follows the first set of steps, and Byleth peeks from her hiding spot to witness the horrific sight of her brother stumbling against the walls of the dormitories’ hallway, tripping all over himself in his drunken stupor and babbling incoherent syllables.

“ **Wheeeeeeeeeeere ‘ddd ya goooo** \--”

She completely freezes in place. How did Ben follow her there? Last she checked he was sound asleep in his bed, tucked under his covers—

 _Oh no_ , Byleth realizes. _The conversation with Grima._ _He must have overheard about the party._

“ _Shhhhh_ , Ben, Ben”, she goes to shake him up, “You have to get away from here. Return to your room—” Byleth tries to urge him into motion and silence; and fails at both miserably, because he manages to somehow get even louder.

“ **Dddoooon’t leave meeee** , ‘ **Shhhothis** ,” he sniffs as he grabs the collar of her shirt, “ **Pleeeeeeashe**. **Y’don’t leave me n’ more--”**

Byleth’s chest tightens a little at that. “No, she would never—”

Her weak attempt at comforting him gets soon interrupted by Ben’s sudden and copious puking, as her brother decides to empty his stomach right in front of the Empress’s room, where the door is still riskily sprung open to reveal the mess she’s made in her ransacking of the place.

“Ben!” Byleth yelps in surprise, hurrying to grab him before he collapses in his own vomit, and it’s there she hears footsteps approaching from down the hall, knowing full well someone is about to witness the royal disaster of the Eisner siblings thieving and vomiting around the monastery.

Mercifully, she still has all her charges to spare. Byleth tries to conjure the Divine Pulse, feeling the familiar surge of energy rushing through her veins before the sound of shattering glass fills her ears—

\--And she can’t.

She tries a second time, and then a third; a fourth; but nothing changes, and the goddess’s power keeps laying somewhere deep within her, present but unreachable.

The footsteps echo closer, halting just a few feet away from her.

“ **S’hellooo, handsome** —” Ben slurs, his unfocused gaze set on the intruder at her back.

Byleth panics.

“Oh, what do we have here?” a rich, velvety voice greets her from behind, with a familiar exotic accent she wouldn’t forget so easily, especially because she’s last heard it in class that very afternoon.

“A thief and a drunkard? So early in the night?”

Byleth turns around in horror, her indigo irises wide with recognition as they meet another pair of cunning, mischievous green ones.

“Hohoho, Teach! I almost can’t believe my eyes! Stealing from the Empress’s riches, are we? Mind if we share?”

It’s Claude.

* * *

Grima always makes the same dream.

He’s sleeping on a grass field, and it should be incredibly uncomfortable, but it really isn’t. He feels cozy and relaxed like he’s never felt before, with the late-spring sunlight reflecting on his skin, warming him up and brightening the world behind his eyelids.

When he opens them, there’s always the same figure waiting for him in that sun-kissed fairytale, standing tall before his eyes.

_“There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know,”_ his own Prince Charming always says, radiant in the golden glow as he extends his hand to him.

Grima’s chest always tightens at his view, and he knows he’s beautiful, the most beautiful person he’s ever laid his eyes on, even if for some reason he can never quite see his face clearly with all that light, no matter how much he squints to make out his features.

When he takes his hand and the other man lifts him up from the ground, the dream always starts to fade, leaving behind only unintelligible words and a speck of blue sea hair and eyes that look at him in that same brilliant, mesmerizing hue.

For some reason, Grima always finds himself crying when he wakes up in the morning, and the feeling of longing he experiences each sunrise doesn’t leave him all day, until he's asleep in his bed and the cycle repeats, over and over again.

Grima is always feeling like he’s looking for something that isn’t there anymore, that he once had and could reach and touch and hold with his hands; and whenever he’s roaming the monastery’s empty halls on night duty it’s almost as if he can see himself patrolling another palace entirely, somewhere far away and confused he can only see small glimpses of.

And whenever he’s standing still in his post, arms resting at his sides and eyes cast on the market scenery below; he always, always feels like he doesn’t really belong in this world he’s suddenly awakened to one day and that he has no memory of whatsoever.

No; instead of the heavy monastery gates, Grima very much prefers to imagine himself planning strategies on the battlefield, leading entire armies through war and casting devastating spells on hordes of undead monsters.

He knows it might sound impossible, if not outright crazy and delusional; but he swears that sometimes, when he looks up at the sky, he can picture himself and his prince fighting a giant dragon together in the clouds; just like one of the epic legends the other guards are so fond of.

Grima tries his best to brush those fantasies away, because a part of him knows his place is now at Garreg Mach, living the quiet and peaceful life the Church has been so kind to give him, even when he first appeared to them asleep and amnesiac in a grass field; a crazy madman with no recollection of his own identity who couldn’t even write nor speak properly until he was given private lessons by the Archbishop’s advisor.

He knows full well this is where he belongs to now, that he should just appreciate what he has and be grateful; but every time Grima gazes away in the distance, his eyes imaginarily soar over the tall mountains to the azure oceans and the wide plains beyond those snowy silhouettes; and he can't help but feel like there is no place for him to call _home_ in this world _,_ no matter how far he could go or travel, because nothing matters anymore if _he_ is not with him.

And in a strange, twisted way, his made-up fairytale is the realest thing that he has; the only puzzle piece that actually fits amidst a daily reality that feels more fantasy than his own dreams; and he wraps it around himself like a warm blanket every time he goes to sleep, leaving his bittersweet but comforting cover at the crack of dawn, when he has to wipe his tears away and wear his armor before heading out to work.

So Grima always makes that dream, and always wakes up to tears trailing down to the pillow underneath him, until he dries them all off and begins his day, no more a Hero greeting his prince on a warm spring afternoon but a simple, unremarkable guard performing his duties day after day.

Except that night, after he’s bid goodnight to the new professors and slipped quietly into his oneiric kingdom; those blue irises leave his mind come morning like they always, cruelly do; but the usual wetness on Grima’s cheeks is replaced by soft dimples in his wake, and the salt on his lips with a single name.

A sudden realization sparks up inside his chest, and his heart races as he gives it voice, desperately trying to keep the image of those dark hair shining under the sunlight burned into his mind.

It is with hope the next word leaves his mouth; hope that his fairytale has finally become true.

Maybe, Grima thinks, his Prince Charming doesn’t actually need to be a prince, nor kill a dragon for him.

Maybe all he has to do is be real.

_"Ben?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I think about the dramatic incipit of my tale and then I re-read Ben's drunken scenes and I'm like "Well getting shit wasted is still *technically* part of 'learnng what it truly means to be human', amIrite?" 
> 
> Thanks for reading until here, next chapter will be out in a bit longer than a week cuz of exams + I'm planning on writing the final chapter for my Pokèmon Hoenn Soulmates fic "Soul Symphony" before going on even further with this one, since my other baby creation deserves closure as well! 
> 
> If you like Pokèmon and especially 3rd gen games be sure to check it out!


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